


the multitudinous seas incarnadine

by ghostofgatsby



Series: I'd kill for you. I'd die for you. I'd live for you. [21]
Category: The Yogscast
Genre: Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, Blood, Dissociation, Fae & Fairies, Hallucinations, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Interrogation, M/M, Magic, Manipulation, Mind Games, Multi, Pain, Panic, Smoking, Torture, Urban Magic Yogs, Violence, mindfuckery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-14
Updated: 2017-07-16
Packaged: 2018-12-02 04:11:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 25,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11501508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostofgatsby/pseuds/ghostofgatsby
Summary: Ross opens his mouth to say something, but the floor in front of him shakes with a loud bang and a blinding blaze of holy light flashes from the doorway. When Ross can see again, he looks up slowly.Leather dress shoes have burned the "Off" part of the welcome mat by the door, so it only reads "Fuck" instead. Swirling gold and silver magic intertwines up a khaki-colored trench coat. A grizzled beard and dark, burning eyes scan the living room as golden sigils float in the air around his face, protecting him from the remaining threshold magic fighting back.“Knock knock,” teases Angor, with a smile completely devoid of kindness or mercy. A badge for Magical Law & Safety is clipped to his lapel.Smith stares over the back of the couch, sucking in a ragged breath through his teeth. “Angor...”





	1. My conscience hath a thousand several tongues,

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ARE YOU EXCITED. I am excited! I'm so glad I FINALLY got this finished, AHHH!
> 
> As always, let me know what you think, tell me what you liked, and leave a comment down below. I'm really proud of this one? And quite happy with it in the end? There's lots of nuance and detail in some of these lines. Angor is the Literal Worst. He's SO TERRIBLE. He's such a bad person. But it's so good?  
> Seriously, come talk to me about my fics anytime. You people on tumblr see those Author Meme’s pass your dash- those questions and others like them are always welcome to ask.
> 
> Thanks to Three, Nate, and Leon for betaing!
> 
> takes place a few days after “'Tis safer to be that which we destroy”
> 
> this one gets dark and hits hard, folks. heed the cws.  
> cw: Hurt/Comfort, Torture, Dissociation, Mind Games, mindfuckery, Manipulation, Blood, Violence  
> Pain, bruises, Panic, Interrogation, Hallucination, Magic, scars, burns, Injury, Smoking  
> specific cws for chp 1: pinning against a wall, non-con magical immobilization/bondage/pain-infliction, violence?, mention of swords/blood, mention of drinking  
> specific cws for chp 2: hopelessness, brief knives/stabbing, threats, temporary immobilization/paralyzation (from pain), mention of death/dead bodies/murder, drowning  
> specific cws for chp 3: mention of knives, thoughts of death and personal sacrifice (not the ritual kind); minor depressive mood,  
> If I need to tag something, let me know.
> 
> reblog: https://ghostofgatsby13.wordpress.com/2017/07/14/the-multitudinous-seas-incarnadine-ghostofgatsby
> 
> playlist:  
> https://play.spotify.com/user/ghostofgatsby/playlist/2S05JXiBObvjmDspUupvgv?play=true&utm_source=open.spotify.com&utm_medium=open  
> tracklist: https://ghostofgatsby13.wordpress.com/2017/07/14/in-the-highest-degree-playlist

Trott takes a deep breath and lets it out again. The pristine white and gleaming chrome of the Apple store is too bright of a backdrop for the headache he’s trying to get rid of, but he has Garbage Court business to do here.

This store brought in a decent amount of income for them. It was next to Sidhe territory, hidden under the horned bastard’s nose, and the humans here had no idea of fae presence. It was a good location for the GC to worm their way in and make some profit, magically and monetarily. Normally, Trott would take pride at his accomplishments for the benefit of his court, but...

Not today. No, he had too many other things on his mind, today.

Trott looks around at the displays, waiting for one of the shop workers to finish dealing with customers so he can catch up with them about sales. He had ridden with Sips this morning in Sips’ dull-er non-company-paid car, Trott’s temporary ride to work since Sips’ previous car had gotten ruined. Normally Trott would find his way to work by himself, but he didn’t trust letting Sips ride alone. He’d been dropped off at Dirty Deeds just after Sips picked up Turps, and the mood in the car had been frigid at best.

He and Sips hadn’t really spoken in the last few days. Even Turps could sense the tension between the two of them, but he thankfully didn’t say anything. Trott was glad that he had at least persuaded Sips to wear his iron-spun waistcoat under his bowling shirt today- extra protection couldn’t hurt.

Only a few days had passed since the golems had tried to attack Sips. Trott had found tiny slivers of power crystals, both in the concrete in the parking garage and in Sips' electricity-wrecked engine. From what he could gather, the crystals had all been infused with the same magical energy source, but they were activated separately. Trott wasn’t sure if that meant two separate people had used magic, or one person activated it on some sort of timer or trigger.

Regardless, it had been electricity magic that had activated the golems _and_ damaged their threshold. When Trott examined their apartment foundations a little deeper, he had discovered the same slivers of crystal along the electrical box on the back of their building.

But they weren’t crystal shards, according to Ross. It was tempered glass. (Which was fair enough- Trott didn’t know of any magical stone that conducted electricity.) Whatever had been placed in Sips’ engine and at the breaker box of their apartment had been electricity magic contained in a glass form. A timed explosive, in the case of Sips’ engine. When heated up, glass conducts, and at high temperatures, shatters. The threshold had been the same, but with more concentrated magical energy and heated from some outside source.

It makes Trott’s head pound just thinking about it all. Every day is more difficult, and he isn’t sure how to handle it. He rubs his forehead and sighs.

The busy environment he’s in right now certainly doesn’t help, either.

Multiple humans bustle in and out of the store, jamming through the doors so quickly that Trott almost doesn’t spot him- Will Strife. An average-looking, blonde-haired, hipster-nerd young adult. He looks more grown up than he did when he first came to the city. He’s a shell of the boy they met once before, but there were so many layers of otherworlder magic laid over him that Trott has to force himself to stop looking at it. Will’s still so far under the thumb of the horned bastard that he surely had to feel it by now... Trott can tell he’s grown in power, but by how much, he isn’t sure. With age and experience doesn’t always come power and wisdom.

Trott slides up next to Will and clears his throat, interrupting the young sorcerer in looking at different cables for sale.

“Fancy seeing you here, sunshine.” Trott smiles, unfriendly.

Will flinches nervously at the sound of his voice, and turns around. “Shouldn’t I be saying that to you?” he asks.

“Oh, I’m just doing business...” Trott plucks the plastic-packaged headphone-jack from Will’s hand and inspects it disinterestedly. He can feel Will’s annoyed frown, but pays it no mind, smiling as he hands the package back. “You know, we could get you a better deal on shitty electronics, if that’s what you’re looking for. I could even get you a discount here if you wanted.”

Will snatches the cable back and shakes his head no. “I don’t need anything from you.” His green eyes narrow in suspicion.

“Is that so?” Trott leans up against the cabinet display, penning Will in between the wall and a thick line of customers.

Will tosses the cable back into it’s priced basket. “Yeah. So what do you want from me?”

“Good question. Taken any strolls near our side of the tracks recently?”

“...no?” Will raises an eyebrow. His face seems more confused than scared. His forehead wrinkles in concentration. “Why would I?”

Trott hums. “You tell me. But I suppose you wouldn't want to get in trouble for trespassing on our turf, would you?”

“No, I wouldn't.” Will twists the ties of his red hoodie nervously. His gaze zig-zags from the crowd, to Trott, and back again.

“See, we’re not very kind, when it comes to...” Trott casually runs his fingers across the hilt of one of the knives at his belt, and Will's eyes narrow on it. “...people with power and allegiances like yours. And if you took a walk down our streets, you’d have an even more watchful eye on you than you do already. We don’t like people trying to undermine our success. Is that understood?”

Will swallows thickly, and his frown quickly morphs from a scowl into a straight-faced glare. His eyes narrow in on Trott again, staring determinedly at his face. “Yeah, I get it. Um. So, how's...business? You own a business, right?”

“I do, sunshine. Interested in what Dirty Deeds has to offer?” Trott grins. Over Will’s shoulder, he sees a screen flicker. A tablet restarts out of the corner of his eye.

Will's intent look wavers momentarily. He fists his hands in his pockets. “Er- I-” A blush rises to his cheeks as he stammers. “No, that's not- um-”

Trott laughs. He pokes Will in the shoulder and feels a faint tickle of static dart down his arm and side. Was that a protective glamour he felt? High-level work if that was the case...but he lacked control if his powers were messing with the tablets, too. Trott hides his interest in the younger man’s magic. “We have all kinds of things at the shop, if you’re interested. You'd sure look pretty all trussed up for your horny lord and owner.”

“It's not- we're not-” Will’s blush deepens. “We don’t- he’s not my _owner_ , nor-”

“Oh! There’s also a sale on vibrators this weekend! In case you want to work out some of that pent-up energy.” Trott winks. He feels another tickle of static and Will shakes his head, stammering.

“That’s- no. Nope, that’s not- not my thing. I don’t...I should get going. Yeah, um...bye!” There’s a break in the crowd, and Will quickly ducks out of the conversation and disappears.

Trott shakes his head as he watches him go. The young sorcerer still seemed so unaware of how tightly his ties to the horned bastard were wrapped around him. Or maybe he _was_ aware of it- magically-defensive glamour was something not even most fae could master...

But the static he had felt was nothing more than basic, unmagical, static energy. A byproduct from electricity magic on it’s own.

Trott sighs to himself. It was hard to tell, if Will was the one behind the golems or the damage to their threshold. The Apple store was surrounded by electrical devices, common for a technomancer to use, and there was no way for Trott to get a reading on Will’s magic without feeling it for himself.

 

* * *

 

Ross kneels beside the apartment door, listening to the tv hidden past the couch. He isn’t sure if Smith is watching it or napping- he can’t see him- but while Trott and Sips are gone, Ross can’t seem to pull himself away from the front door. He can feel the threshold wavering, and it dregs up his deep-seated urge to protect.

He and Trott had talked a long time ago, about how Ross felt it was his duty to keep watch like this. He used to stay up a lot, in those early days, if Smith or Trott didn’t drag him to bed. But slowly, Ross began to make choices for himself. Though he was tied to the threshold because of what he was, he was told that the magic of their court would protect them.

Now with that protection weakened, he felt like he had no choice but to stand vigil. This was what he was made for, wasn’t it? Had he not done a good enough job before? Ross knew he wasn’t at fault for the threshold being weaker, but he couldn’t help but feel somewhat inadequate if he sat and did nothing somewhere else.

Trott had always told him it wasn’t his job to be their guardian. Ross doesn’t know how _not_ to be any different than what he was made to be. No matter how often he’s told it, it’s ingrained in him. And because of that, he can only imagine how hard it is for Smith to go against his magical nature...

The first small popping noise Ross hears, he almost doesn’t think anything of it. But then the noise interrupts his thinking again, and it’s coming from behind him, not from the tv.

Ross turns slightly. The noise wasn’t coming from the kitchen. It was coming from the wall. The longer Ross listens, the more the sound grows like a pot boiling over. Popping-crackling sounds along the baseboard trim, growing louder and louder- so loud that even Smith mutes the tv and cranes his head to look around.

Ross opens his mouth to say something, but the floor in front of him shakes with a loud bang and a blinding blaze of holy light flashes from the doorway.

When Ross can see again, he looks up slowly.

Leather dress shoes have burned the "Off" part of the welcome mat by the door, so it only reads "Fuck" instead. Swirling gold and silver magic intertwines up a khaki-colored trench coat. A grizzled beard and dark, burning eyes scan the living room as golden sigils float in the air around his face, protecting him from the remaining threshold magic fighting back.

“Knock _knock_ ,” teases Angor, with a smile completely devoid of kindness or mercy. A badge for Magical Law & Safety is clipped to his lapel.

Smith stares over the back of the couch, sucking in a ragged breath through his teeth. “Angor...”

Ross can feel the spike of fear that drives straight through Smith. He wishes he had claws again so he could tear into Angor, make him fear them like Smith is fearing him right now. The threshold magic would ordinarily push anyone out for breaking through, but not when it's been weakened. And Angor’s status as gatekeeper allows him more leeway than most when it comes to doorways.

Smith’s legs shake as he stands. He wants to run, but he can’t. There’s nowhere to run to, and Angor would hunt him down, anyway. He hasn’t shown up to his court summons, so Angor’s come to take him in.

The second Angor takes a step off the welcome mat, Ross vaults up onto his feet. He puts himself between the fallen archangel and the couch, and reaches for the bastard’s trench coat, aiming at shoving him outside and away from Smith. But before his hands touch fabric, a large gust of energy immediately sweeps him aside.

Ross’ back slams into the wall next the window. The plaster crunches and falls to the floor.

“I don’t have time for your games, _gargoyle_ ,” Angor growls at him. He holds his hand out and concentrates his energy towards Ross.

“No!” Ross recoils and tries to duck out of the way, but Angor’s magic holds him in place. Golden light glows around the fallen archangel’s hands. He draws draws a shining, silver-hued great sword from thin air, and points it at Ross. The hilt is wrapped in bloody cloth.

“Get the fuck away from him,” Smith snarls. He rounds the couch towards Angor but an unseen force shoves him hard onto his knees. He barely manages to catch himself before his face is pushed to the floor. His palms smart from the impact. Smith grinds his teeth. “Don’t- don’t you dare fucking touch him, or-”

“Or what?” Angor scoffs, keeping his eyes trained on Ross, “I haven’t laid a hand on him, but he's getting in my way. And if you resist, I'll make sure he feels _every moment_ in _agony_.”

Ross lets out a noise through his teeth as the tip of the sword scratches down his chest.

Angor grins. Sparks dance across his fingertips.

“I know what your here for. You want me, then take me,” Smith says, slowly standing up again. It feels like he’s moving through treacle, or molasses. His knees shake, threatening to buckle out from under him. “ _Let him go._ I'll go with you...willingly.” He can hear the defeatism in his own voice. But he can’t let Ross get involved. He has to pay for this alone.

“Oh, you're coming with me, kelpie, no doubt about that. Despite your gargoyle having no say in the matter, I’m glad we cleared that tricky bit of ‘willing’ business up.” Angor’s eyes flicker between Ross and Smith gleefully, as if he’s unsure which looks more pained. He flexes his hand around the sword.

Black burn marks have started forming around Ross' throat, growing downwards, spreading strange cracks and scorch marks right at his breastbone. He's frozen against the wall, in pain, squeezing his eyes shut. Every time he tries to shift his arms or feet or lift his head, the energy darkens and the cracks widen.

“Smith, don't- ow, ow, _ow_ , why does that hurt? F-ah-” Ross winces and recoils away from the magic. Smith watches a single drop of purple-red blood roll down Ross’ chest.

“It’s divine energy,” Angor answers condescendingly, “You're not the only one who arose from heavenly magic. And unlike constructs, _true_ beings of God have the power to _manipulate..._ ” He twists his free hand and Ross cries out in pain.

“Leave him the _fuck_ alone already!” Smith snarls in agitation. He’d fight off Angor himself if he could move through the magic keeping him still. “Stop whatever you’re doing, fucking cuff me and let’s go. I’m the one you want; _I’m_ the one your summons is for- _not_ him.”

Angor smirks and lowers his magic at last. The gold and silver dims and disappears up his sleeves as he dismisses the sword into thin air. “That is true, kelpie. You’re the only one who can suffer for your mistakes- or...” He chuckles. “Suffer the punishment for them, I should say.”

Smith grinds his teeth, and looks from Angor's face to Ross' wide eyes. The fallen archangel releases his hold on Ross and steps back onto the welcome mat, waiting.

“Ross...listen to me,” Smith starts, skirting close to the couch as he walks over to meet him.

“ _Smith-_ ” Ross sucks in a ragged breath. He staggers away from the wall and plaster crumbles to the floor behind him. “Smith, don’t-”

Smith presses his keys into Ross' hand. He knows Ross will keep them safe, and it's better if his court has them than Angor.

"Call Trott and Sips for me," Smith says solemnly. He starts walking backwards towards Angor.

" _Please_..." Ross gasps, clinging weakly to his shirt hem. His hands are shaking. “Smith...”

Smith swallows thickly and peels Ross' fingers off, pretending he doesn't see his own fear reflected back at him through Ross' eyes. _I have to_ , he thinks, but instead he shakes his head. "Call them, Ross. _Call them._ "

Smith takes a deep breath and faces Angor again.

The fallen archangel raises a single disinterested eyebrow. When Smith walks in reach, he grabs his wrist and spins him around, firmly cuffing his hands behind his back.

Smith struggles violently in Angor’s hold. He rears and bucks, and the fallen archangel shoves him up against the back of the door, pinning him. His fingers circle Smith’s wrists with white-hot burning magic.

“I can’t wait to give you a taste of your own medicine, kelpie,” Angor growls in his ear, “because you are in for so much retribution.” His thumbs dig into Smith pulse point as he yanks him backwards, and Smith stumbles into his chest.

Smith’s last glimpse of the apartment is the cracked plaster walls and Ross’ terrified, pained expression.

Just as Angor appears, he disappears, taking Smith with him as he teleports away in a flurry of light.

 

* * *

 

" _Steeeee-rike!_ Ha- _ha!_ "

Turps throws a punch in the air triumphantly. An X flashes up on the screen, and places itself in the second box under his name.

“Take that, old man!” Turps calls, taking a seat next to Sips and flicking the brim of his hat.

Sips shakes his head fondly and levers himself up out of the seat. “The first strike's only a sign of the disappointment to come, Turps. You should know from last time.” He collects his bowling ball from the rack. The ball was a dark, ominous purple, spun through with blue and gold. A gift from his court, several winters ago.

“ _You’re_ going to be disappointed when you lose. Want me to get you some nachos to cry over post-game?” Turps asks.

Sips smiles. "Save ‘em. We'll see who's crying when the game's said and done.” He cradles the bowling ball in his hands as he steps up to the lane.

Just as he takes his swing, his right pocket starts to vibrate.

Sips tuts, watching the ball crash into the pins. He looks up at the scorecard and worms his phone out of his pocket. Spare with pins on the four and seven. Not as good as Turps, but not too bad on the third turn. Plenty of game left.

The ball-return clicks and whirs, spitting his ball up and into the rack with a loud _ka-chunk_ , and Sips checks the caller id.

It's Ross. The gargoyle hardly ever used his phone, and would only call if he was home alone or out wandering and needed someone to pick him up. Something about the top of Ross’ horned head flashing on screen makes Sips worried.

Sips frowns and takes the call.

"Ross, I'm in the middle of a game. What's up?"

“ _Smith’s gone!_ ” Ross shouts through the receiver.

“What?” Sips struggles to hear over an abrupt chorus of cheers. There’s a party full of old geezers with their canes and their walkers a few lanes from he and Turps. Their age doesn’t keep them from being raucously loud, but then again, Sips thinks the two pints of beer probably have to do with the noise.

“What do you mean, Smith’s gone?” Sips asks, switching his phone to his other ear and covering the receiver to block out the sound.

“ _Angor took him!_ ” Ross snaps, panic making his voice hike up in pitch, “ _He fucking showed up and Smith went with him, and I tried calling Trott but he’s not answering his phone-_ ”

Sips blanches.

“ _The call kept ringing, and ringing, and ringing like he’s out of signal. I- fuck. Fuck! The fuck am I supposed to do? Trott won’t answer, Smith’s with fucking Angor- I couldn’t stop him, and the threshold- the threshold just_ -”

“Ross- Ross, _stop for a minute._ ” Sips takes a deep breath and swallows thickly. “Just go to the shop and get Trott. I’ll do what I can,” he tells him, trying not to let his own worry creep into his words.

“ _O-Okay._ ” Ross sighs heavily, and Sips can hear the sounds of traffic and rough scraping noises of marble against concrete. “ _Okay, I’ll- I guess. Sips_...”

“Trott first,” Sips says, “We’ll get him back, Ross. Now _go_.”

“ _Okay..._ ” Ross whispers, sounding so quiet and worried that it makes Sips’ heart ache.

He waits for Ross to hang up, and then lowers the phone from his ear.

Turps is looking at him expectantly as he sips his drink. He raises an eyebrow at Sips’ expression, which turns more dark and murderous the longer he stands in place.

“Turps...you wouldn’t happen to know where the magic police headquarters are, would you?” Sips asks slowly, pocketing his phone and reaching for his coat off the back of his chair.

Turps pales. “Two streets over from main street, mate. Why?”

Sips zips his jacket up to his chin and straightens the crown on his head.

“I have an appointment with a fallen archangel,” he replies, venom seeping into his tone. “And this is the last fucking time that asshole messes with my court.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title:  
> “Will all great Neptune's ocean wash this blood  
> Clean from my hand? No; this my hand will rather  
> The multitudinous seas incarnadine,  
> Making the green one red.”  
> Macbeth (Act 2, scene 2, lines 54-60)  
> http://www.enotes.com/shakespeare-quotes/multitudinous-seas-incarnadine  
> [incarnadine] means to turn something pink or light red—what Macbeth imagines his bloody hands will do to Neptune's green ocean  
> “Macbeth has come to recognize that his guilt can never be washed off, even if the blood can be washed from his hands. Instead, his guilt will poison the world around him, which he compares to an ocean.”
> 
> chapter titles:  
> "My conscience hath a thousand several tongues,  
> And every tongue brings in a several tale,  
> And every tale condemns me for a villain."  
> Richard III (Act 5, scene 3, lines 205-228)  
> http://nfs.sparknotes.com/richardiii/page_324.html
> 
> http://urbanmagicaesthetic.tumblr.com/post/141815121767/cloudyskiesandcatharsis-archangel-michaels  
> http://generationstylefashion.tumblr.com/post/142076920781  
> http://generationstylefashion.tumblr.com/post/136092589196  
> UMY: Angor
> 
> http://vaporwave-van-gogh.tumblr.com/post/116000883033/bowling-alley-carpeting
> 
> “King of the Alleys” is embroidered on the back of Sips' bowling jacket.


	2. And every tongue brings in a several tale,

Smith had never teleported before, but the second he and Angor arrive at their destination, he knows he never wants to do it again. Teleporting is like being crushed into a miniscule compact space for a brief moment, all the air forced from your lungs in a horrible, gunt-wrenching squeeze, only to violently lurch back into form when you get where you want to be.

Smith gasps for breath in the pitch black hallway. He struggles harder to escape Angor’s hold, but the fallen archangel shoves Smith up against the rough brick walls and forces him still. The side of Smith’s face digs into the coarse exterior. The hands around his wrists make him want to scream, so he does, shrieking loudly like a stallion’s piercing bray. He hopes he damages the bastard’s holy eardrums.

Angor’s eyes gleam in the darkness. “Don’t test me, kelpie, or I’ll add ‘resisting arrest’ to your string of law-breaking incursions,” he sneers. His magic starts winding around Smith, gold and silver intertwined. The bright gold lights up the dirty, cell-lined hallway, and the magic begins to burn on Smith’s skin.

“The fuck is this- what-” Smith snaps, choking on his words as the pain intensifies. The gold dims into dull gray chains wrapped around his wrists. _No. Not iron- not iron, no, NO-_

“Celestial ferrous, kelpie. Just for you. Not even your guardian angel could break you out of these.” Angor yanks Smith around to face him and grins.

Smith attempts to kick him in the dick, pulling against the chain the fallen archangel holds to try to unbalance him. The iron feels like his skin’s been set on fire. Every point of contact with the chain links is like a brand.

Angor grabs him by the back of the neck and shoves him to the ground with god-like force. Smith cries out as his knees crash onto pitted concrete. He screams and thrashes uselessly as Angor drags him down the hallway.

It’s the worst sort of bondage. Smith twists his wrists left and right behind his back, futilely trying to shrink away from the chains and get himself free. Images of men with pitchforks and torches, iron pipes and crowbars, swim before his vision. All the stories he’s heard, passed down from generations in kelpie kind. The panic presses down on his chest and throat, suffocating.

Angor ignores him. He whistles merrily, unperturbed, and drags Smith along the hallway like he weighs nothing. The glowing magic from Angor’s hand lights the ground below. The concrete floor is carved with drag marks and claw marks, like rivets, and stained dark red with old blood. The air smells damp and dank. The sweet and putrid scent of mold and mildew assaults Smith’s nostrils.

As they pass row after row of cells, there are occasional whispers from beings inside. Voices pleading, babbling, sobbing, cursing, laughing, but the farther they go, the more there is only silence.

Smith hisses and shouts every insult he knows in English, river fae, and a few other fae and human languages he's picked up from foreign kills and travellers. His head spins dizzily from hyperventilating and screaming so hard that he’s out of breath..

The cell Angor throws him in is metallic and cold, and the sudden stark brightness of the lamps in the ceiling makes Smith momentarily blind. He blinks spots from his vision. Angor fastens the end of the chain to a metal table bolted to the floor in the middle of the cell.

“Take a seat, kelpie. You’ll be here awhile.”

Smith glares up at Angor through pain-watery eyes and watches him disappear back down the hallway. The cell door magically locks behind him and the wall shimmers, becoming seamless, gleaming metal where the door used to be.

Smith painfully pulls himself up onto the dingy metal chair bolted to the floor behind the table. He’s glad this isn’t iron, too, but the pain of the chains themselves is impossible to distract himself from.

The room is so cold that there are goosebumps on his skin. It’s completely silent. Smith is alone with his thoughts, and the buzz in his mind is overwhelming. He bounces his leg in anxiousness and curses down at his sore, bruised knees. He’s littered in scrapes and smeared in what he hopes isn’t literal shit from being dragged down the hallway. It looks gritty, like dirt and gravel, but that isn’t much of a relief.

Smith clenches his fists behind him and tries to settle his racing heart.

There are runes upon the metal walls, making the air flush with subduement and loneliness. He’s cold, and it feels like someone’s on top of his shoulders, pushing him to the floor. It's like the empaths Smith mistakenly met once- surrounding him in a single feeling. Smith wishes Trott was with him now like he was then. Not trapped like this, in trouble with Angor, but fighting back. At least he knows a few tricks this time to attempt to keep his mind clear. He’s not sure how well it’s working with the iron chains burning around his wrists. Tugging at them is no use. There’s no escaping this place, and that single thought makes his stomach flip.

Smith can't help but think of all the things he should have and shouldn't have done. It doesn't help; it makes his mistakes worse.

Sure, it's all in his head- there's nothing in the room making these thoughts surface, besides the misery- but the darkness of his thoughts pulls him deeper still.

He doesn't want to think about what will come, but he can't escape the cells nor himself. The despair is creeping into him, telling him how doomed he is, how this pain is only the beginning. Smith can feel himself heading back down into the depths of hating his existence.

 _Because if you didn’t exist, none of this would have happened,_ the voices speak up.

He tells them to hush, but they’re so hard to ignore. He doesn’t need this now. He can’t crumble like he’s done before. He _can’t._

Smith weakly pulls at his restraints again, gritting his teeth at the burning, branding pain, and breathing loudly to break the silence. Trying to distract himself. Trying to fight off the panic.

He wants to go home. He can only hope somehow that his court will get him out of this. Trott must have a plan, right? They all knew this would happen. Fuck, he should have told him. He should have told him he’d gotten the court summons, but what good would it really have done? It would have just stressed Trott out more.

Except, Trott has always told him to come to him regardless, hasn’t he?

Fuck.

_Still can’t learn, can you?_

Smith grinds his teeth and squeezes his eyes shut, struggling in his chains, trying to pry his wrists free. He’s shaking. His skin is burning from the iron.

Fuck.

He’s got to get out of this.

He can only hope his court will come for him. He can't think about what if they don't, because that leaves him at the complete mercy of Angor. And the fallen archangel has none.

 _This is what you deserve;_ the voices hiss, _everything you’ve done has led to this._

_There’s no escaping your fate, Smith. THERE’S NO ESCAPING WHAT YOU’VE DONE._

Smith’s stomach twists with fear, but he can't let it get to him. He can’t let himself crumple before Angor’s wrath has even begun. He has to get through this, somehow, someway. He bites his lip just to feel something different than the pain around his wrists, wanting it to be over already.

But there’s no reprieve from this now. His reprieve had been the decades in the past that his power grew but went unchecked.

And now, his debts are long overdue.

Smith just hopes, if anything happens, it's to him, and not to his court. If he hadn’t gone willingly...who knows what Angor would have done to Ross to get to him. Who knows what he could have done to Sips, or Trott, if they were there. Smith hopes Trott doesn’t do anything reckless, either- but the thought makes him choke out a bitter laugh.

Since when has Trott done something like that?

Trott would only sacrifice everything if one of them was dead.

And Smith fears he’s in for much, much worse than that.

Would death be easier than all of this? He doesn’t know. But if anything, he knows he can’t let this be the end.

 _It’s sort of the scarier thought,_ he thinks, _because death doesn’t scare me one bit. Fuck knows I’ve stared it in the face and turned away._

_But I’m terrified of knowing what comes after this. Because if this isn’t the worst thing yet, what is?_

 

* * *

 

The first wash of fear makes Trott stumble onto the railcar he’s boarding. The city's rail system was sparsely filled after the lunch rush, and the other two people in the railcar don't pay Trott a second glance. There's an old Chinese man reading a newspaper in the back, and a college-age-looking pixie several seats over, headphones on as she bops her head to music and scrolls through her phone. Enough seconds pass that Trott walks a little slower and finds a seat, but when the second wave of fear hits, it's nearly enough to bring him to his knees.

Pure, fire-hot terror. Trott’s chest burns, and he feels short of breath. He raises his hand to his chest, focusing in on Smith's bond. The panic he feels through it is paralyzing. Trott fumbles numbly for his phone, clinging to the rough plastic seat beneath him and blinking spots from his graying vision. Another wave of pain and fear shudders through him. The reflection of his pale face wavers in his phone screen. He presses the power button again and again, but his phone won’t turn on.

The battery must be dead. Shit.

An empty pop bottle rolls past Trott's feet, the plastic hollowly rattling as it knocks into the bottom of the metal support beams attaching the railcar’s seats to the floor. Trott hunches over, left gasping from Smith’s bond’s emotional link, and leans his head on his knee to dispel some of his lightheadedness.

Something was wrong. Something was very, very wrong, and he needs to get home. He needs to get to Smith.

 

* * *

 

“So many choices you made, kelpie...which one do you want to talk about first?” Angor asks rhetorically, “The drive-thru fuck and drown? The pizza place alley dumpster drop? Or the gas station arson, perhaps? All of _this_ is damning evidence.” He spreads a stack of polaroids out like a deck of cards before him on the table.

Smith raises an eyebrow, challenging. “So?”

“What do you have to say for yourself?” Angor gestures at the photos and lights a cigarette. His knuckles are dirtied and his trenchcoat is a little askew, like he’s had to sort out something before interrogating Smith. He blows a stream of smoke into Smith’s face and taps the manila folder he’d placed on the table. There’s dirt under his fingernails. “I’ve got all kinds of evidence on you. Aren’t you going to tell me otherwise? Beg? Plead? Or are you too above groveling because you know there’s nothing that’ll save you?”

Smith grinds his teeth. “What do you fucking get, huh? What the _fuck_ do you get other than the satisfaction that I've done all this?” He tugs at the chains around his wrist. The iron is still burning against his skin.

“Retribution.”

“You don't care about mortal lives,” Smith scoffs.

“I care about justice.”

“You care about _vengeance_.”

“And that’s _exactly_ what you should get for this,” Angor snaps. He flips the folder open and slaps down printouts of the gas station security cameras. There’s a blurry Smith in front of the gas pump, guiding the attendant into the car, and the body out.

“How did you-”

“You were caught on mortal news and security footage.”

Well. At least his licence plate isn't shown.

“ _This_ is what your chaos caused.” Angor pushes a photo of the burnt gas station in front of Smith's field of vision. “Take a good look.”

Smith tears his gaze away, unable to deal with the aftermath- the fire trucks, the smoke, the ash, _the last mistake he should have made-_

“I wonder what compelled you, kelpie. What compelled you to drown someone so rapidly, on camera, in broad daylight, and then _set the place aflame_. It’s like you were asking for it.” Angor leans towards him, hands on the table, cigarette dangling from his lips. Smith doesn’t meet his eyes, but he can feel him staring at him. The tension in the room couldn't be cut, not even with the sharpest of knives. It presses down on top of Smith, the weight of his mistakes tying his spine to the axis of the Earth. If he moves a muscle, he’s going to fall.

“You know the law. Fae are supposed to keep their victims hidden. Mortals and fae do not mix in any way that _doesn’t_ end in death. Especially when that comes to _you_.”

Smith watches ash flicker off the end of Angor’s cigarette and forces himself to meet his eyes again.

Angor continues his questioning. “How do you know that act only caused one death that day?”

Smith sighs through his teeth. “There wasn't anyone else, there was only the attendant-”

“How do you know? How do you know there weren't any witnesses?”

“Because you didn't tell me I was lying when I said there _wasn't_ ,” Smith snaps back.

Angor chuckles, unamused. He stands up straighter and smokes his cigarette, eyes burning with barely hidden malice. “Think you're clever, do you?”

Smith shakes his head. “No. I'm not the clever one.”

Angor grins menacingly and laughs. “No, you’re not. Even your incompetent whelp of a selkie knows better not to get involved in mortal deaths. But he doesn’t have the strength or pulchritude to keep you in his bed, does he?”

“ _You shut your fucking mouth-_ ” Smith snarls, jerking hard in his restraints.

“He couldn’t keep you from straying, could he?” Angor sneers, “He can’t stop you from taking bloody mortals to bed and fucking them to death. He couldn’t salvage the destruction you caused. And he wouldn’t be able to save you if you blew yourself up in that arson.”

“ _Fuck you!_ ”

Angor slides the pictures near to Smith again. “Take a closer look at these, kelpie. _Understand what you’ve done._ ”

“I understand plenty, you son of a bitch,” Smith growls.

“Then understand _this_ ,” the fallen archangel threatens, “ _He can’t save you now_. _None of them can._ You’ll burn in whatever hell I desire, and I’ll show you _exactly_ what that feels like.”

Smith glares back, painfully twisting in his chains. His eyes go wide as he starts to feel heat rising up his legs.

“No! _No, no, no-_ ” He thrashes in his seat.

Angor waves his hand, and it’s like Smith's at the gas station again, if he stayed to watch. He can feel the heat of the flames and taste the smoke in the air. But fire’s catching on his clothes, and he can’t get free, he can’t get away-

“Stop!” Smith screeches through his teeth and tugs harshly at the chains around his wrists. He tries to use the burning pain of the iron to snap him out of the hallucination. “It’s not real, this isn’t real, it’s not- _Make it stop!_ ” The heat is licking up his spine. It’s like his nightmares all over again.

Angor’s laughter echoes around him. “What’s real and what isn’t? What’s the distinction?” He yanks Smith out of the hallucination, and Smith gasps suddenly, shaking, sweat-soaked in front of Angor again instead of burning in the arson.

 _I’ve been here all this time,_ Smith reminds himself, _None of that was real. None of it._ Doubt pecks at his mind.

"You drowned three dozen people in just over a month. Or have you _forgotten?_ " Angor flashes the polaroid pictures in his face again. He throws picture after picture of Smith's victims into his lap. "The DJ in the shower, a server at a drive-in, a stripper from Rocky Straits..." Angor names each one. The crime scenes are stark and drab against the bloated, grey bodies. "...the janitor at the supermarket, the Taco Bell employee-"

"Stop. Stop, I get it-" Smith pants.

"Hmm, do you? Because I don't think you do, kelpie." Angor stabs his cigarette out on the printouts from the gas station, right on Smith’s blurry, naked ass climbing out of his car. "Your actions have consequences. They all had _names_ , _Smith_. Families. Friends. Loved ones. How easily could it have been your own court?"

" _Stop_ ," Smith pleads angrily, “You don’t care about my court. You don’t care about any of the victims, so why should I?”

Angor grins. "Think on this- Finn, Jamie, Sal- do you think they wanted to drown as much as you wanted them to?"

" _Shut the fuck up._ "

"Do you think their deaths will be as worthy to you as yours will be to me?"

Smith shakes imperceptibly. He squeezes his eyes shut for two breaths, before opening them again. He meets Angor's gaze and swallows down his fear.

"You can't kill me," he says, knowing he's right.

"I can't," Angor agrees, tilting his head to the side as if curious, "But you'll wish I did."

The fallen archangel pushes the photographs to the end of the table and closes the now empty manila folder. He brushes his hand down the front of his coat, like Sips does when he’s looking for a cigarette, but instead he just loosens a button.

“Your heightened run of murders- drownings- stretched over the course of a month. But there were other things, too, that have contributed to your arrest,” he informs.

Smith scoffs. “Yeah? Like what? Ordered one too many whiskeys and didn’t pay my tab?”

Angor’s mouth curls up in a disgusted facsimile of a smile. "No. There's also the matter of the chaos you caused at the party your court had. The one at the end of that month."

"I know which one," Smith says quickly, wondering and fearing where Angor’s going with this.

Angor chuckles lowly. "Oh, I'm sure you do. Bet it was a nasty shock come morning."

Smith doesn't laugh back.

“How about we relive that?”

Smith tries not to let the terror show on his face. He grits his teeth and immediately feels pain rise up, as Angor waves his hand and shoves him back into the memory of that night at the party.

The room shifts from metallic and bright, to dark, flashing neon. There are faceless shadow-shapes surrounding him, and Trott is pinning him to the floor.

“Tell me what you’ve done, Smith,” says Trott, only it’s Angor’s voice coming out of his mouth.

“You know that already,” Smith growls.

His mind sees Trott, but Angor’s magic hits him like a brick to the face. _Slam._

Smith reels. He squeezes his eyes shut but he can still see what Angor projects into his mind. It’s all fake. This isn’t real, but it feels like he’s back again. Back in the warehouse. Back in the memory. He can almost taste the whiskey. He can almost hear the thudding sound of the music. Or maybe that’s his heart in his ears.

Trott’s face is closer now, angry, furious, hurt. Smith’s bond aches. “Tell me what I want to know,” says Angor-Trott again.

Smith opens his eyes and glares right where he knows Angor is looking.

“No.”

_Slam._

Another rush of pain hits him like a tidal wave. He coughs up blood, and tastes iron in his mouth

“ _Tell me what you are,_ ” Angor roars, flooding Smith’s mind with images of bodies in the river. “This is what you’ve done. This is what you cause: death.”

He pulls him back to the night of the party again, only this time Trott has a knife to his throat.

“What are you?” Angor-Trott asks. “You’re nothing but a murderer.”

_A monster._

_Fae like you aren’t any different._

“Speak for yourself, you piece of shit,” Smith growls. _This isn’t real._ He thinks of Trott, the real one. Those ocean eyes, that have held a knife to his throat before. This isn’t Trott.

Angor shifts the memory, grabbing Smith’s train of thought and using it against him. And one of the biggest, most recent memories of Trott Smith has, is when they made their bond.

The room shifts again.

Instead of the living room in their apartment, Smith sees the cell. But instead of Angor, he sees Trott, and instead of rope around himself, he sees chains.

_No, no, no, no-_

The more he tries to fight out of what Angor’s showing him, the more his head hurts. Waves of pain thud into his skull like tolling church bells. Echoing, echoing, echoing...

_You can’t take this from me, you can’t! This isn’t real, this isn’t-_

He thrashes in his bindings. The vision warps and twists back and forth, from what actually happened to what Angor is trying to change it to. The iron chains burn around his wrists.

 _This isn’t real_.

Angor-Trott walks up to him and holds a knife to his throat again.

“ _What are you, Smith?_ ” Angor asks.

Smith screams through his teeth, trying to fight against the images of Trott stabbing slowly through his chest, his lips kissing blood off his neck.

The hallucination drops.

Angor stands before him.

Smith dry heaves. His shoulders are shaking.

Angor takes a step back in disgust. “Why would a murderer care about the victims he kills?” he asks seethingly, “What heart has he, when he's as cold inside as the dead bodies he leaves behind.”

“I am not what you think I am,” Smith chokes out.

“Oh? And what are you, _kelpie?_ Do tell me.” Angor grins darkly. “Because we’re just getting started.”

 

* * *

 

“What do you mean, he’s not here?!” Ross exclaims.

“He left hours ago to run errands. I’m not entirely sure where...” Crystal hums, shuffling merchandise in her arms. The dryad was hanging up leather fetish gear when Ross stormed into Dirty Deeds, panicking. “He did make a list, but he might have taken it with him. Let me look in the back.”

He watches Crystal disappear to the back room. Electro-pop music plays overhead as her sister, Chastity, rings up a few customers at the counter.

Ross angrily lashes his tail from side to side. Every second spent waiting was another second too late to do something. It had felt unsettling for him to tear himself away from protecting the threshold, and go and find Trott. He'd know if something tried to damage the threshold more, but it didn't make the feeling of leaving it any less grating.

His own injuries didn't matter to him, either. Ross couldn't even assess any pain right now from what Angor had done, not with the feelings of fear and adrenaline rushing through him.

His determination to protect pulled him in multiple directions. He couldn’t stop overthinking where Trott could be, and how he could find him- Smith’s in trouble-

Crystal brings a folded piece of paper out from the back room and hands it to Ross. “Here’s-”

Ross snatches it from her hand and runs. “If- if he comes back, tell him to charge his damn phone and call me!” he throws over his shoulder as he bursts out of the shop. He doesn’t give much thought to if he’s causing a scene or not. He needs altitude.

Ross darts into an alley. He digs his fingers in concrete as he scales the tallest building in sight, trying to calm his racing thoughts. He's not good at snap-quick logic like Trott, or bursting into emotion-fueled action like Smith is. He doesn’t know what he can do other than search, right now.

Mid-afternoon traffic isn’t too chaotic from high up. Two pigeons take flight from the ledge upon seeing him.

Ross tries to call Trott again, but it’s no use. The dial tone keeps ringing.

“Come on, Trott, pick the fuck up!” He makes an aggrieved noise and chews his lip, staring down at the list Crystal had given him. Trott's scratchy handwriting stares back. Ross feels lucky that he's gone with Trott on so many rounds- he recognizes every place on the list. He just has to start searching...

The bond with Smith tugs Ross painfully towards the center of the city, but he has to find Trott first.

_Sips...I hope you have some kind of plan..._

 

* * *

 

Smith’s body rocks with pain again as Angor’s magic barrels into his mind. Blood drips out the side of one nostril. He licks his lips and grimaces. “What do you want me to confess to? If you know it was me, what the hell am I supposed to say?” he asks through his teeth.

“This is confirmation, kelpie,” Angor says, kneeling down on one knee next to Smith. His bearded face is inches from Smith’s. “You tell me what I know is true, and maybe you’ll get off a little lighter.”

Smith scoffs and blinks spots from his vision. His head is pounding from the onslaught of pain Angor psychically renders. “You’ll punish me all the same. What difference does it make to confirm everything you already know? I’m not your fucking puppet; I won’t be pulled by your strings!”

Angor grabs his jaw tightly. Fury blazes in his eyes. His fingers are like blunt claws, pressing into his cheeks. Smith has half the mind to spit in his face, but he doesn’t. He dug himself a grave already. He doesn’t want to make it any deeper.

“I’ll get you to confess. Whether it’s from your lips, or from your mind, I don’t care. _I’ll pry it from you_.” Energy presses into Smith’s head, ringing in his ears, like someone’s slamming a fist inside his skull, over and over. He pulls at his wrists again, hissing in pain at the iron on his skin.

Angor scoffs and stands back up, reigning the power back.

Smith slumps as the pain dissipates. His tongue throbs where he’s bitten it, and he tastes blood.

“Let’s try this again!” Angor walks behind him and grabs him by the hair, yanking sharply and baring his throat. Smith’s eyes swim as he stares up at the metallic ceiling above him, and Angor’s wrathful gaze staring downward.

For a moment, Smith sees what Angor truly is- a monstrous being of radiant holy energy. A burning mass of shadows and blinding golden light, that consumes everything around it- hope, despair, pain- any emotion. Like a black hole.

”Accept. Your fate, _kelpie_ ,” Angor growls, “You’re making this harder than it needs to be. All that deferment only gives you pain. _Accept it_.”

“...No,” Smith mutters.

Angor flexes his hand in Smith’s hair, and the pain rushes through him. From the top of his skull to the bottom of his feet, like his entire body is consumed in burning, electrified energy. Smith writhes in the chair, back arching off the seat, the iron chains digging into his wrists. He squeezes his eyes shut, and the few tears lurking in the corners of his eyes come out burning.

“ _Tell me!_ ” Angor roars, inside his mind and in real life. “ _Say it!_ You killed them. All of them. We both know- there’s no denying the crimes you’ve committed or the lives you have taken.”

Smith struggles in his bonds as his body is wracked with waves of pain. He coughs harshly and feels the blood in his mouth spatter down the front of his shirt. His eyes snap open to glare up at Angor when the fallen archangel yanks on his hair again.

“Over three dozen lives were taken, and they’re all connected by one thing-” Angor holds up a finger on his free hand. “One kelpie. The only kelpie in the city is you, and none venture this far south, so you can’t even try to say it wasn’t.”

Power screams inside Smith’s mind, and he grits his teeth. He wants to say something, deny it all, but Angor keeps talking. The memories of his kills flash like strobe lights inside his head.

“The bodies were found soaked in your charm magic, and I’ve see your kills before. They’re the exact same.”

 _Look at the mess you’ve made, Smith,_ the voices say, _this is what you’ve done. You know. You did it. You’ll pay for it. YOU CAN’T ESCAPE THIS, SO STOP RUNNING._

“ _Tell me what you are_ ,” Angor growls, jerking Smith by the hair, “Tell me what you’ve done. _Confess to it!_ ”

The pain rises, broiling inside him, and Smith screams through his teeth.

“ _Fine!_ ” Smith yells, “Fucking _fine!_ You’re right! I fucking drowned them all. Are you happy?” He’s shaking. The divine energy returns to Angor slowly, draining out of Smith as he slumps in his seat. Smith glares straight into Angor’s eyes. “I drowned over three dozen. The ones you showed me,” he pants, anguished. He can feel blood and sweat dripping down his face. “I charmed each of my victims away, fucked them, and murdered them. They _drowned_ in my waters, and I reveled in it. Each of their deaths was mine to take, and _I, not you_ , hold their deaths as debts over me. They are mine and mine alone, and to those debts I shall pay.” His voice wavers with the formality of the words. But that’s the confession Angor wants.

A slow grin works it’s way across the fallen archangel’s face. “Very good. But that statement about your debts being your own is where you’re wrong.”

Smith tries to not let his fear show, because somehow, Angor’s right- Smith accepted the debt, but he doesn’t feel any lighter. He doesn’t feel it change. He should feel the magic of the debt solidify, but the strings all lead to the fallen archangel in front of him.

Angor lets go of his hair and comes around to stand next to him again.

“Your debt doesn’t belong to _you_ , kelpie. It belongs to _me_. _I_ hold ownership. _I_ took on the debt when mortals found the bodies and contacted _me_. I’ll do what I desire with that debt, and I’ll do as I please with you.”

Smith keeps his eyes locked with Angor’s, grinding his teeth even though it hurts something awful right now.

Angor grins back, baring his teeth like a wolf about to swallow the world whole. “I am the judge, jury, and executioner, here. This is _my_ house, kelpie. My rules.” With a twist of his hand, he materializes a set of ancient keys in the air. “Now, where to sentence you...lets start with this one, shall we?” Smirking, Angor turns and holds the key he’s selected up to the wall. He slowly presses it forward, and the metal starts to warp and twist around it. The surface shimmers as he turns his hand, and in front of them appears a tiny room. It’s as empty and gray as the cell itself, but there’s a singular lightbulb swinging high above a basin of water.

Angor detaches the length of iron chain from the table and all but throws Smith into the room by his neck. Smith comes down hard enough to hear his knees crack.

He expects what’s coming next, but he doesn’t expect the fallen archangel to snap his fingers first.

The water in the basin in front of him turns to lava, and the flames reflect off of the metal walls surrounding them.

“No, no, _no, no, NO!_ ” Smith screams, and his sock-covered feet slide on the concrete as Angor shoves him forward.

 

Time passes, but he doesn’t know how long it’s been. It was probably only a couple of hours, but it feels like days.

By the time Angor gets tired of faux-drowning him in water, Smith's voice is shot from screaming so much. The fallen archangel shoves him through other portals, places where it feels like he’s being crushed underneath by invisible giants, having the shit kicked out of him, or razed by hunters and burned alive.

Smith whimpers as he's pulled out of each portal by the chains. The imaginary stench of gasoline makes him retch over Angor's shoes, and he gets kicked in the gut in response. He didn't know if what was happening was real or fake, while he was in there. It was agonizing.

Angor kneels down on one knee next to him. His fingers touch Smith’s cheek.

“They’re never coming for you, kelpie,” he murmurs. His words are like ichor. “You’re mine to eke justice on, and to me alone you’ll pay.”

Smith wheezes, coughs, and tastes blood. He cracks open his eyes to tell Angor where he can shove his fucking debt, but movement where the door should be catches his eye.

Angor waves his hand, and the entrance wall melts away, opening into the hallway again. There’s a shadow past Angor's shoulder.

Smith slumps in relief, letting out a weary breath.

“Sips...”

 

* * *

 

They were expecting Angor to show up sooner rather than later- but not like this. Not like this, with the apartment threshold frayed, and with Trott on the other side of the city without a cell phone signal. Not when Sips and Trott had barely talked since their fight earlier in the week.

For Sips, it wasn't a decision he had to make, to go after Angor. It wasn't ingrained in him to be a fucking hero of sorts and do everything in his power to help, either. But he couldn't stand on the wayside anymore while someone he cared about was hurting. Like before- like when it was him who was in danger- a threat against one of them was a threat against all of them. And if there was one thing Sips knew for certain, it was that Smith needed him as much as he needed the others. And Sips needed all of them.

 

The magical law enforcement building has a dark brown art nouveau exterior, with decorative moldings, smooth curves, and designs that emulate winding ivy crawling up the sides. The windows are tall and arched, and surrounded by black iron balustrades. Gold detailing around the entrance shines in the mid-afternoon sun.

Sips strolls into the building without hesitation, pushing past anybody in his way. His bowling shoes clack audibly across the swirled marble flooring. The ceiling above him is domed, with golden chandeliers hanging from it, dripping with crystals. Dark brown wood panelling lines the walls, lacquered and polished to a blindingly reflective sheen, and above it is floral wallpaper that looks like black-and-white pencil drawings. Small settees and chairs are on either side of the room, where visitors are waiting, and others are working or taking breaks. The members of the magical inspection agency are wearing smart pantsuits and business wear in dark brown colors, with identifying badges pinned to their lapels.

In the back of the entrance hall, there are frosted glass windows behind a long, tall counter, and hanging in the center above it is a great, burnished gold clock. It’s ostentatiously ornate, with scrollwork and sculpted golden flowers, almost regal in design.

Sips steps up to the reception desk and demands to see Angor.

The receptionist gives him a slight once-over. Through Sips’ eyes, she looks unthreateningly human, but he knows glamour can easily cover fae appearances. He haughtily adjusts his hat.

“I’m sorry, but he’s busy at the moment,” the receptionist says icily. Her voice is clipped and her tone is formal, befitting someone in customer service who has to deal with angry customers all too often. “Have you made a prior appointment, or-”

Sips grabs the receptionist by the collar and jerks her forward over the countertop. “Listen to me, you fucking piece of shit, I don’t care if he’s busy,” he mutters angrily, “You better fucking take me to him now, or they’ll be hell to pay. _I swear it_.”

The receptionist shakes a little. She stutters apologies and tries to pull out of Sips’ grip. He knows she’s just trying to do her job, but he doesn’t have time to waste.

“Tell me where he is. _Now,_ ” he snaps.

"He-He's down in corrections, sir. The stairs to the left there-” She points as Sips lets go of her collar. “Someone can escort y-"

Sips turns from the receptionist and marches at double-time towards the stairs without a word. He can hear people calling after him and runs, down the stairs, and past a few security guards on their way up. He can feel fae trying to catch him, winces as the magic of the bond in his hand itches when they so much as graze his arm with their fingertips. He doesn’t have time for them or for anyone else who tries to get in his way.

In the basement of the building is a door marked, “Correctional Facility.” Sips shudders as he shoulders through and shuts the door behind him, catching his breath and hoping no one else follows after. His eyes slowly adjust in the dark.

Before him is a long, endless hallway, lined with cells and bolted metal doors. Sips looks back at where he came, reassured that the door to the outside is still there. It’s like another world down here. It’s cold, and damp. It smells sour with refuse and debris. He can hear a faint trickle of a leaky pipe, but no yelling of the security guards coming after him. It has the eerie quality of what Trott calls “a liminal space”- a space between places, where the mortal world thins out and bleeds into others.

Or, as they say in human words, “a creepy-as-hell, haunted-ass location.”

Sips uses his cell phone as a light and starts walking slowly and carefully down the cellblock.

He catches glimpses of creatures, people- fae or mortal, he doesn’t know- hidden in the jail cells. He tries to look into each. There are overwhelming whispers if he gets too close. Pleading voices trapped within, begging senselessly.

It’s horrifying that underneath this building is a place where people are kept in suffering. And Smith is trapped here, too. God only knows where...

Sips blinks heavily and sighs, trying to keep his goal in mind. He has to find Smith. As he walks along, he sees things move in the shadows on the wall, but there's nothing there. He spots a rune or two by each cell, but he doesn't recognize them from the ones Trott's carved in the awnings of their front door. He wouldn't know they were runes if it wasn't for Trott telling him about them.

Sips walks long enough to make his feet tired. Worry brews inside him, the longer he searches. What if he’s too late? What then? What if this was a stupid idea, and he really couldn’t get Smith out of this mess after all? He’s running in on the slimmest chance he can bargain with Angor and get the fallen archangel to let Smith go. What if it doesn’t work?

Sips shakes himself and keeps pushing onward.

If it came to that, he’d figure it out. He’d figure something out. He has to.

Or Trott and Ross would burst down the door and free Smith that way.

They’d get Smith out of this. Come hell or highwater. He’s come this far, already- he isn’t leaving without him.

Sips scuffs his feet against the ground. He grimaces at the stains and drag marks, and runs a shaky hand over his face as he pictures Smith being taken down this same path...beaten or unconscious. Probably calling Angor all sorts of filthy insults. Sips manages a small smirk at the thought.

And then he nearly trips over himself when his ears pick up on screaming.

“Oh God...Smith?” he says aloud, staring into the continuing darkness in front of him. He hopes his mind isn’t playing tricks on him. But the sound is distinct, if distorted, like shouting in a bucket. He’d recognize that voice anywhere.

Sips storms towards what he thinks could be the end of the hallway at last, following down a long line of cages, desperately searching each one. The door the sound comes from is solid metal, with a tiny glass window at the top that’s too thin to see through. There’s no handle. No way in, no way out.

He puts his phone away and slams his fists on the metal hard enough that his hands sting, shouting Smith’s name.

“Smith! _Smith!_ Hey!” he shouts, furiously pounding away at the door, “Open up, you fucking bastard, I know you’re in there! You think you can take one of my court, without facing me first? _Open the damn door!_ ” He gives it a couple of kicks for good measure and steps back.

The screaming stops. Sips shields his eyes as the door dematerializes and opens up into a brightly lit room. He blinks the spots out of his vision as the scenery comes into focus. Metal walls; metal table and chair. Your basic interrogation setting.

Smith is curled up on the ground to the side of the table, bruised and bloodied, with his arms chained behind his back. His eyes are pained, and terrified, but there’s a spark of relief in them, too.

“Sips...” Smith’s voice is hardly audible.

Angor is kneeling beside him, sneering. He turns around and gets to his feet. “Well, look who it is...if it isn’t the _garbage_ king...” He laughs. His cell phone makes a tell-tale ios chime on the table. Obviously, he'd been in the midst of something important while throwing Smith into hell-knows-where: playing fucking _Candy Crush_.

Sips hears his knuckles crack as he clenches his hands tight into fists. His anger makes his chest tighten and his whole body tense up, because _this motherfucker_ . He clears his throat and steps forward into the room, drawing all the attention to himself. “What the _fuck_ have you done,” he mutters, glaring at the fallen archangel in front of him.

Angor grins, all menace. “I’ve been doing my job. More than you have, it appears, unless bowling attire is your regular uniform. To what do I owe your...surprise presence.”

“Listen here, you wingèd son-of-a-bitch,” Sips growls, getting right in Angor’s face and jabbing a finger at his chest. “You better fuckin’ give him back. Right now.”

Sips knows Angor can sense the iron in his suit jacket by the way he bristles. But divine power radiates off of Angor in return, and it’s enough to make Sips gasp quietly in awe. His hand slackens and falls back to his side in shock.

Angor isn’t even intimidated, just laughs, throwing back his head and cackling. “Give him _back?_ _Please_ \- you have no idea what he’s still in for, do you?” His curious eyes give Sips a skeptical look. He slides behind the table and takes a seat, leaning back and putting up his feet. His dress shoes hit the table top with a metallic thunk. Polaroid photos scatter onto the ground- snapshots of dead bodies at crime scenes.

“I know he has a debt to pay,” Sips replies, remaining where he’s standing but turning towards Angor to keep him in his line of sight.

The fallen archangel chuckles lowly. “Yes, he certainly does.” He reaches into his trenchcoat pocket and pulls out a cigarette, lighting it.

“How much?” Sips asks.

Angor takes a drag and blows smoke into the air. “How much what?”

“Money. For him.” He jerks his head towards Smith, whose bloodshot green eyes warily glance between him and Angor.

Angor laughs again, wheezing and coughing on his cigarette. “You think you can pay off his bounty with _cash?_ That’s rich!” The laughter makes Sips feel unsettled, but he resolves himself.

Angor blows smoke from his lips with a haughty smile. “So you’re proposing a _business deal?_ ” he asks, “Do you _really_ think money will get your _precious kelpie_ out of his mess?”

“Whatever monetary value you want, I’ll pay for it,” Sips tells him.

Angor shakes his head slowly in disbelief. He flicks his ashes towards Smith on the ground. “ _He’s_ charged with forty-two counts of reckless murder, endangerment of fae kind, and disregard of the limits on fae-human relations. He committed these crimes willfully and of his own accord, without regard for the laws set forth eons ago, and he accepts his guilt of all charges laid before him. Your _damn foolish kelpie_ has willingly agreed to pay this debt to me...unless his ‘king’ has an objection to his punishment?”

Sips crosses his arms over his chest. “That I do, oh your Honorable Douchiness.”

Angor scowls. “Watch your tongue, mortal. You know not what you mess with.” He continues smoking his cigarette.

Sips keeps his face stern, outwardly composed. He knows his eyes betray his fury and fear.

Angor’s tall, broad form reflects in the metallic walls surrounding them. Sips keeps his eyes steadily forward, because like everything, if you look close enough you'll see the cracks.

The fallen archangel hums and takes his feet off the table. “Money, though mortal in value, _is_ power...”

“Money is influence,” Sips counters.

“The only question is...is if I believe your mortality gives you enough of it, as pathetic as your fae crown commands it to.” He inspects a piece of lint on his coat sleeve and flicks it off with a uncaring hum.

“Did someone stuff a divining rod up your ass, or have you always been this much of a piece of shit?” Sips snarls back.

Angor slams his hand on the table, startling Smith and making Sips tense up warily. He incinerates the cigarette in his grip in a quick burst of magic under his fingertips, and stands up from the chair. The metal legs protest in a teeth-gritting squeak from where they’re bolted to the floor.

“You really dare to test me? I don’t take well to petty insults from humans playing games,” the fallen archangel says through his teeth, “And let me tell you, mortal- _threats_ aren’t going to get you what you want, either.”

Sips scoffs. Threats don’t get you what you want? This coming from the man who’s threatened and tortured his court? _I don’t fucking think so._ He’d spit in this bastard’s face right now if he thought it would do him any good.

“You're a businessman of sorts, yeah?” Sips continues, “So understand this, you _pompous angelic prick_ -” he snaps, “I _know_ your fucking game. You keep people trapped in here, and yet you profess to being holier, or in more of a right than Smith? I don’t care whose orders you take, I don’t care if you serve heaven or hell. Angel or not, you’re no saint.”

Angor chuckles darkly. “You think I don’t know that? You think I don’t know _exactly_ what I am?” The shadows in the room seem to darken, Angor’s power fluctuating around him, a warning.

“I know you love being a hypocrite,” Sips replies, “I know how you fallen work- I did my research. You revel in the flaws of others. It doesn’t matter if you take up their sins, their worst qualities, when you straddle the lines between divine and mortal so easily.”

“Is that so?” he murmurs.

Sips nods, unwilling to bow down to the fire within Angor’s gaze as he stares back at him. “Yeah. You’re a greedy fucking bastard, and I know you find pleasure in the price of someone’s mistakes.”

Angor leans against the table, inspecting Sips with interest. “Strange words, coming from a businessman such as yourself.” He smirks. “But perhaps we have more in common than I thought. Money talks in the city, after all.”

Sips bristles. “Unlike you, I don’t like watching people suffer.”

“ _Suffering_.” Angor scoffs. “You come here and talk to me of _suffering_? Mortal, you know _nothing_ of me,” the fallen archangel sneers, baring his teeth, “And if I were you, I’d start reconsidering the way you’re speaking.” His hand curls in midair. Divine power, gold and silver hued, spreads out from his fingertips and settles on top of Smith’s shoulders, casting them in an amber glow.

Sips purses his lips together, and Angor grins as he clenches his fist tightly. Smith grinds his teeth with a pained noise in the back of his throat. A shudder passes through him, and he cries out.

“This can get a lot more painful for your precious little kelpie,” Angor mutters, “And you’ve interrupted my administration of punishment- so I’m going to pick up right where I left off. Make a deal, or _get out._ ”

Sips shakes his head slowly, pretending he can’t feel his knees trembling and threatening to buckle. “How much money do you want?” he asks again.

Angor quirks an eyebrow. “This offer? Still?”

“ _How much?_ ” Sips reiterates darkly, “Give me an answer, you fucking asshole. How. _Much?_ ”

Angor tips his head to the side speculatively and watches Sips for a long time. Smith grits his teeth at the feeling of Angor’s magic digging into his shoulders.

“That’s so curious to me. That you offer that, to free him,” he mumbles, as if Sips is some sort of insect under a microscope that the fallen archangel is trying to dissect alive.

“Money talks in the city, after all,” Sips mocks.

Smith gasps when Angor lets go, and the magic dissipates. The fallen angel clears his throat.

“In exchange for the kelpie and his debt, I want twenty five thousand dollars. Each. For every victim he killed in the past month, and for the remaining portals he would have gone through.”

Sips reaches into his pocket for his wallet.

Smith protests weakly from the floor, trying to stop him, “Sips- it’s fine,” he says hoarsely, struggling to keep his voice even, “I-I’ll-”

“No. You’re coming home with me.” Sips pulls his wallet out anyway. “Who do I make the check out to?” he asks Angor, who laughs at the ridiculousness of the situation.

“ _Sips_ -” Smith rasps.

Sips shushes him. He fills out the check for a quick two million and hands it across the table. Angor pockets it.

“Though your kelpie, and money, may be cheap to you...my time is expensive,” Angor sneers, looking from Sips to Smith. “As much as I’d enjoy reminding you of your failure, I do have matters elsewhere to attend to.”

Smith struggles to keep his gaze. He reminds himself to keep breathing, because he feels like he’s going to pass out.

Angor walks around the table, tapping the toe of his shoe against Smith’s cheek as he passes. Smith doesn’t even snap at his heel, too exhausted to flinch. The chains around his wrists dematerialize. He whimpers sharply.

“Consider this meeting adjourned,” Angor says snidely, turning to Sips again, “Take him, and leave. His debt is paid.” And just as quickly as he appeared before, he was gone.

Sips immediately kneels down onto the concrete next to Smith and carefully helps him into a sitting position. “Fucking shit, kid, you look like hell,” he says, voice strained.

Smith is covered in dirt and soot. Reddish tears are streaked down his cheeks, and his eyes are glazed-over and disoriented. He brings his arms around to the front of his body with a gasp of pain.

Sips’ eyes widen at the angry, dark red-black burns of chain links, raw around Smith’s wrists. “What...”

“Iron,” Smith clarifies, shivering involuntarily. His clothes stick to his skin with sweat. Tiny blood droplets are spattered on the front of his shirt.

Sips frowns and wipes Smith's face with his sleeve. He shrugs off his bowling jacket and drapes it around Smith’s shoulders. “Are you hurt anywhere else?”

“Everywhere. Aches.” Smith chokes back a sob and drops his head onto Sips’ shoulder. He can feel the warning of the iron-laced vest underneath Sips' garishly neon bowling shirt. He curls his fingers into the hem. “How long- how long has it been- that I’ve been in here-” Smith gasps, clinging to him.

“A few hours, maybe?”

“It feels like it's been longer...” Smith words come out panicked. “Sips, what have you done? I don’t-”

Sips shushes him wordlessly, but Smith continues babbling hoarsely.

"During- part of me thought- it was like you left. All of you. You'd _left_...it was like you forgot." There's an unspoken "me" at the end of that sentence.

"I'm not going anywhere, Smith,” Sips reassures. He holds Smith’s trembling body as the kelpie breaks down, half sobbing, half wheezing hysterically.  
“Fuck...fuck, it's over. _Please_...” Smith hiccups into Sips’ shirt. “I just want to go home...please.”

“I know you do. Come on, easy.” Sips helps Smith to his feet and wipes his tears from his face again. “I can't carry you, Smith. You’re going to have to walk with me, alright?”

Smith nods, cradling his arms close to his body and holding Sips’ bowling jacket closed with clasped fingers.

Sips protectively wraps his arm around Smith’s shoulders. “Let’s get you out of here.”

The two of them walk out of the room, shuffling blindly past the cells to the door at the end of the hall. To Sips’ surprise, there are no guards waiting for them in the echoey basement hallway. He escorts Smith up the stairs and through the lavish lobby of the magical law enforcement building. The receptionist from earlier has been replaced by someone else, and no one acknowledges Smith or Sips as they move past. Sips holds the outer door open for Smith and breathes a sigh of relief at the city buzz and smell of traffic exhaust.

“Sips...what did he mean, you paid for it? How are we just walking out of here?” Smith asks wearily, leaning into Sips’ gentle hold.

Sips shushes him and takes out his cell phone. “Don’t worry about it right this second. Let’s get to the car.” He fires off a quick text to Trott and Ross to let them know they’re alright- they’re headed home- and starts guiding Smith down the street.

 

* * *

 

Trott hunches into himself in the shuddering railcar, overcome with vertigo and the realization that he’s been caught empty handed. Here he is, immobilized with the pain simmering through Smith’s bond, unable to do anything to help.

Impossible. There _had_ to be something else, something he wasn’t seeing- _he wasn’t going to fucking fail his court again_ , no matter how much the stakes seemed stacked against him. _Damn the odds._ Not in hell. Not in hell, would he fail them again. He _can’t._

The fear is shaking through his nerves, from his toes to his fingertips, and Trott would scream if his jaw wasn’t clenched so tightly. His stomach gurgles in discomfort. The longer time passes, the pain gets worse- so potent he can’t move.

And then all at once, it stops. The fear melts into a dull ache in Trott’s chest. The bond is still intact, and the tension evaporates.

Trott sits up slowly in his seat, pressing his sweaty palms to the plastic and metal beneath him. The railcar is empty; rattling on unawares. The robotic voice overhead announces the next stop coming up- the one close to the apartment- and Trott takes a few moments to catch his breath. He can taste the anger at the back of his tongue. He wipes at the sweat on his face with his hand, wondering what happened to make Smith’s fear stop dead in it’s tracks. He’s shivering now at the thin sense of relief he feels, because he doesn’t know what that _means_ , if it’s good or bad or what.

Trott startles when Ross bashes through the railcar door and lands in front of him in a dusty heap.

 

Ross rolls a piece of sidewalk concrete on his tongue, spitting it out and scowling at the oily taste. He’s tucked in the depths of an alley right now, stuck between towering buildings, but architecture and masonry magic hasn’t been able to help him find Trott.

He should have known it’d be difficult to track Trott's movements through the city. Ross knew of places he could have gone- some of the shops he knows Trott goes to regularly, and shops he’d been to with Trott before. But Trott’s nowhere to be found at the places on his list. Maybe it would be easier to find him if he and Trott had a bond, but they don’t have time to rethink should-haves now.

Think, Ross, think...what would Trott do? All these places on the list have what in common?

He rubs gravel over his hands, focusing, trying to draw his glamour tight around him like Trott had taught him. Trying to recall paths he may have walked, and picture the city like a mental map of locations.

The places on Trott’s list are all businesses under Garbage Court dues...so how would Trott get from one place to another?

Ross growls in frustration. He kicks a bit of rubble and watches the rock smack into a dumpster on the other side of the alley.

“Come on, give me a sign! What the fuck am I supposed to do?” he groans up at the sky.

The trundle screech of a rail car careening around a corner sounds a few seconds later.

Ross’ eyes widen. He turns in the direction of the sound with a small spark of hope. “Okay, I can work with that. Um. Thanks.” He gives the sky a small nod, and takes off running.

 

Ross watches the railcars from the shadows of a building ledge, feeling more connected to the stone around him than he did on foot. He clings to the bricks, calculating the distance between the building and the tracks unconsciously, and scanning the windows that pass by for a sign of Trott.

Two separate railcars trundle past until Ross sees a flash of unmistakable brown hair framing an angular jawline. He pushes himself off of the building in a flying leap, soaring through the air for a split second before smashing the railcar door inward with a cacophonous boom and shrieking of ripping metal. The car rattles on it’s tracks but screeches onward.

“Fucking hell, Ross, _what the fuck are you doing!_ ” Trott hisses, clutching at the seat beneath him. He’s slumped slightly to the side, and Ross furrows his brows at the shadow of pain hidden in Trott’s eyes and how sick he looks. Even his lips are pale.

“Trott...” Ross lifts himself off the metal slab of gargoyle-imprinted used-to-be door, and crawls over to kneel at Trott’s side. “Trott, are you alright? You don’t look so good.” He places a hand over Trott’s and frowns at how clammy his skin feels.

“I’m fine. Smith-”

“Angor took him. But Sips went after him, and-”

“ _Sips_ went after him?” Trott’s eyes widen in surprise.

Ross nods furiously. “I tried to stop Angor, but I couldn’t, and the threshold wasn’t working like it used to...and I tried to call you, but your phone was dead.”

“ _Fuck_...” Trott runs a hand through his hair. “Fucking hell. We need to get across the city as quick as possible. I don’t know how we’re going to get there, but the law enforcement headquarters are in the heart of downtown...”

Ross sits back on his haunches, uncertain where to go from here. His hand brushes Smith’s keys in his pocket. “Smith gave me his keys...” he informs Trott quietly, “I-I don’t know if it’ll help, but...” Ross thanks whoever's listening that there aren’t any other passengers aboard this section, and that it’s likely they won’t know who ruined the door. He feels a little guilty for that.

“The car. We could take the car, but that’s back at the apartment.” Trott lets out a shaky, worried breath. “Dammit. Hold onto Smith’s keys, Ross. Keep them safe. That’s one thing Angor doesn’t have, one thing to sway him-” He stops himself. _Sway him towards what?_ Trott thought, _There is no chance of swaying Angor._

He feels powerless and he wants to scream. The fearful feelings of Smith’s bond had dimmed even further. Did bonds stretch into other dimensions? Had Smith been sentenced already? Fuck, they need to move, they don’t have time to sit around and panic!

Trott flinches as Ross’ phone buzzes loudly.

Ross fumbles it out of his pocket. He stares at the screen silently for a moment, and then lets out a heavy breath. “It’s Sips. He says they’re okay...they’re on their way home.”

Trott rubs his face with his hand. “That’s...they’re...”

Ross looks up at him as he puts his phone away and stands up. “That’s all he said. We should meet up with them.” He holds out a hand to help Trott to his feet.

Trott feels the railcar starting to come to a stop at a depo. He gives Ross a solemn nod, his hands shaking as he rubs his chest. “Okay...okay. Home, then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://ghostofgatsby13.wordpress.com/2017/04/29/wip-umy-aesthetic/  
> I made this for chapter 2
> 
> https://ghostofgatsby13.wordpress.com/2017/07/15/urban-magic-yogs-of-fallen-archangels-and-magical-law-and-order  
> info/headcanon about Angor and magical law enforcement
> 
> http://urbanmagicaesthetic.tumblr.com/post/134262450755/flamande-art-nouveau-in-brussels-belgium  
> magic police headquarters, third from the left (the darkest building, the one left of the white one)  
> http://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-KJ1WocrlVR4/TqWtnRaCKwI/AAAAAAABizU/7rDWp3GJzrw/s800/flickr5136396286.jpg  
> magical law enforcement building
> 
> Smith's chained hands approximate  
> https://candidkerry.files.wordpress.com/2011/09/bound-with-chains-of-the-spirit-and-of-men11.jpg
> 
> There's sort of two things going on in Smith's torture scenes:  
> 1\. Angor's trying to get him to admit to his crimes and take responsibility for them- confess. So he's taking his time riling Smith up, insulting him, hurting him, just to get him to say "Fine, I did it" so that he can punish him for it. Angor knows he has all the evidence he needs, but there needs to be a verbal acceptance on Smith's part. That's part of how debts work- like in the fic with Smith and the girl and the brooch? ("upon this bank and shoal of time") He says a similar thing to the girl's brother who came after him, "I alone hold that debt". Debts need magic to be binding. Regular mortals can't claim them, but fae and otherworlders can. So Angor can stake a claim of Smith owing him those debts because Smith's stepped over the lines in fae law and let his kills be found by humans.  
> 2\. Smith's refusing to admit to what he's done, because the sooner he does that the sooner Angor can put him through portals, and the longer he tries to hold off (he thinks), the more time that will give his court to come get him. But time works differently in the MP building, under Angor's watch (which is why it feels like days to him, though it's only a few hours). Additionally, even though Smith knows what he's done...he doesn't want to grovel at Angor's feet because of it. He's very tenacious and determined, even terrified and beaten as he is.


	3. And every tale condemns me for a villain.

When Sips had entered the magical law enforcement building, it was mid-afternoon. By the time he exits with Smith, it's early evening- _already?_ \- and the sun is starting to head towards the horizon. _Fucking fae magic bullshit_ , he thinks.

His car is parked in a little designated lot at the back of the building. The silver oldsmobile was a temporary rental, to tide him over until his company and his insurance approved the replacement. Smith had joked it was a grandpa car the first time he saw it. Maybe it was a bit old-fashioned in style, but it doesn’t smell like mothballs and too much cologne.

Smith doesn't say anything now, about the car or otherwise, as Sips helps him into the passenger seat.

The evening air is humid, and there’s hardly any breeze. The interior of the car is swelteringly hot. Smith leans back in the seat and carefully shifts his legs to keep his thighs from sticking to the cream-colored leather.

Sips buckles the seat belt over Smith’s chest. He heaves a sigh as he leans back out of the car frame and shuts the door on Smith’s side.

The ride home is silent. No radio; no talking. Traffic is busy honking away. Sips doesn’t know what to say to fill the space between them. His chest aches with how much worse things could have been. How bad they were now.

He looks over to check up on Smith every once in a while, and finds Smith staring at him in disbelief, his tired green eyes watching Sips’ hands flex on the steering wheel. In this light Sips can see the smear of blood staining his lips, the bruises on his jaw from fingertips, and the dark purple shading on one cheekbone.

But Smith looks more present than he did the day he got his memories back- more awake and alert.

Sips isn’t sure if that worries him less, or more.

 

Sips parks on the street outside the apartment, turning off the engine with a long sigh of relief. They’ve made it home again. Cicadas buzz in the trees across the street, like static on an old tv. He gets out of the car and walks around to the other side to open the door for Smith.

Smith has already undone his seat belt. He slides out of the car and crumples onto the ground in front of Sips. His horribly bruised knees scrape the street curb.

For a minute, Sips thinks Smith’s going to be sick, or faint, and steadies his shoulder gently. “Smith?”

“Fu- Fucking hell, Sips...” Smith rasps, his shoulders shaking, “Sips, do you understand what- what you’ve done?” He cradles his arms close to his chest, and his fingers cling tightly to Sips' bowling jacket. His clothes beneath it are rumpled and dirty.

“What I’ve done? This shit with Angor?” Sips asks in confusion.

Smith nods. Sips can’t see his expression from how his face is tilted towards the ground.

Sips takes a deep breath and lets it out again. He places his hand on the top of the open door frame and leans into it for support. “Listen, Smith- it’s done. Okay? No one has to worry about that asshole anymore,” Sips tries to reassure him.

“You don’t understand...you can’t just-” Smith grinds his teeth and winces.

“Pay a fine to set you free?”

“Pay money for lives _I killed_ , Sips. Who the fuck _are_ you?” Smith asks, his voice wavering and strained, “Trott? Thinking you can make a business deal and suddenly all of my fucking problems will _disappear_ -”

“I’m not Trott,” Sips mutters, carefully brushing sweaty hair off of Smith’s face to try to see his eyes, “And even Trott knows things don’t come so easily.” He knows Trott and Ross are just up ahead of them, behind the apartment door, and if he can just get Smith there he can get him cleaned up and healed...it feels so close and so far away.

“You don’t understand-” Smith protests.

“Fucking _help me_ understand, then!” Sips snaps. The strain of the day is wearing on him- he just wants to feel secure again. “ _Fuck, I just-_ What were they going to do, send you to a worse magical prison or something? Publically dole out more punishment? I just bailed you out of that torture.”

Smith shakes his head with a low groan, and his bangs fall into his eyes again. “That’s not- That’s not the only thing. It’s not jail, Sips; it’s not just punishment.” He raises his head, glaring. His green eyes are watery with pain. There’s dried blood matted in his facial hair. “Take the worst torture you can think of and double it. It still wouldn’t be close to the scale an archangel can deal out. Angor could have- would have- done anything. He dealt punishment himself and he could have sentenced me to another plane for days. I’m not so sure he _didn’t-_ ” His breath hitches, voice cracking and raspy from screaming.

Sips purses his lips. He grazes the back of his hand against Smith’s unbruised cheek. He opens his mouth to say something else, but Smith looks away again and continues.

“If I was mortal, I would have been dead a long time ago, for what I’ve done,” Smith says, staring at the gravelly asphalt digging into his knees, “But because I’m fae, the deaths are overlooked until they become noticed by mortals. Because I’ve been careless, the punishment would have been far worse. Angor would have chosen the worst hell imaginable as my final atonement. He could have even contacted the fucking horned shitlord and have him make a decision, since he’s ‘lord of the fae.’ Even worse...” Smith carefully lifts his hand up and rubs his face with a harried sigh. “They could have tried to take my keys, or to hurt one of you, if I didn’t cooperate enough.”

“Smith, I didn’t- I don’t want you hurt! That’s why I paid it!” Sips interjects.

“Sips, you paid _thousands and thousands of dollars_ for... _murders_. Murders _I_ committed. I killed those people, I drowned them, and I didn’t hide the evidence. I should have been the one to pay it off,” Smith says.

Sips frowns, watching Smith shake and hearing his panicked breaths suck in humid air. “Did you _want_ them to fucking hurt you for it, then?” he asks morosely.

“ _No_.” Smith screws his eyes shut tight. “No, not- not like- _no_.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“That kind of thing...it can’t just be paid off. It’s a _debt_.”

Sips moves his hand away and crosses his arms over his chest. Fae and their fucking debts. To some extent, he’ll never understand it. He scuffs his bowling shoes across the ground, listening to the gravel scatter. He’d forgotten to change his shoes before he went after Smith. It all happened so fast, and it was only now that Sips realized he’d stood in front of Angor and got away unscathed. How had that been possible, when he was so very human and Angor was...otherworldly. The brush with Angor’s power had felt...

Well, to an extent, it had felt like a brush with death.

Sips sighs nervously and looks back at Smith kneeling in front of him. “You think I fucking care about debt?” he tuts sadly.

Smith raises his head slowly, reluctantly. The expression on his face is that of a man defeated.

Sips gestures at the gold-embroidered crown on his hat. “I don’t give a rat’s ass about debt, Smiffy. I know you and Trott have said it can cause all kinds of manipulation and trickery. But I don’t _care_. It doesn’t matter this time.”

Smith scowls. There’s a growl at the edge of his words. “Don’t brush it off by saying it doesn’t matter,” he snaps, “If it didn’t matter, you wouldn’t have paid it.” He rubs at his face again, angrily, choking back a whimper as his wrist grazes Sips’ jacket draped around his shoulders. “ _Dammit, Sips._ Don’t you get it?”

Sips throws his hands up in aggravation. “No. You know what- no, I don’t. Explain it to me, Smith.” His hands fall to his sides. He clenches them into fists and then loosens them again. His knuckles are sore from wailing away at the cell door.

Smith stares down at the red-raw burns on his wrists, and then closes his eyes for one long moment. “By paying off the debt, you’ve taken it from Angor and placed it on yourself,” he states, “Because of that...I owe you my _life_ , Sips.”

Sips remembers what Turps said about fae not too long ago- _a life debt is a life's worth of service_.

“Smith, you're already part of my court, until...until luck gets the best of me,” he chokes out.

Smith shakes his head. “It’s not- it doesn’t go by _your_ life. It goes by _mine_. Those kinds of debts go by fae timelines- for as long as I exist. A life debt is _ownership_. A fae owing a mortal for- for their life is...it’s _payment_ , for their-”

Like fucking indentured servitude. He knows that terrifies Smith, but it’s not _like_ that with them.

Sips thinks quickly. There’s something else to this, he knows there is. He tries to remember all the fae shit he’s learned over the years, all the information on debts Trott told him when he first became king.

He puts his hand on Smith’s shoulder again and curses quietly.

“Smith...the debt, does it feel like a bond? Is there magic in it?” he asks.

Smith scoffs bitterly. His eyes are red and puffy from holding back tears. “Of course there’s magic in it, Sips. There always is, with fae debts.”

“But can you _feel_ a trace of magic in it? The debt specifically.”

Smith sighs. He tries to push down the latent fear and loss of control for a minute and focuses, closing his eyes and feeling out the bonds he carries. There’s the bond between him and Ross, the bond between him and Trott, and the ties between Sips and the court. Those were the only traces he could find attached to him, of magic other than his. There's nothing. No debt that he can feel. Not towards Sips, or towards Angor. Like it really has been paid.

He shakes his head slightly, wavering where he kneels at the shock of hope. “I don't understand...there isn't- I don't feel one. There’s no magical trace,” Smith answers, opening his eyes and blinking in the harsh sunlight setting towards the west, “But the debt is like a one-way street. Maybe because you can’t do magic worth shit, it’s not perceptible by me. Doesn’t mean it’s not still there.”

Sips hums, thinking and disregarding the snub at his lack of magical ability. “But what if it’s not? What if it’s not there?”

“Sips, I couldn’t get rid of it if I fucking tried. It’s not just going to up and disappear.” Smith grimaces, looking down at himself. Dirt, sweat, and blood is streaked across his arms and legs. But there are no broken bones, and no burns other than the ones on his wrists. He was lucky Sips had gotten to him when he did, because things would have gotten worse the longer Angor continued. “I can’t help but think that I owe you something,” he sighs.

“You said it yourself, though- there’s nothing there.”

“But _how?_ How did you pay for it?” Smith asks quietly, “Mortal money? For fae debt? It doesn’t make sense...”

“Smith.” Sips hooks a finger under Smith’s jaw and brings his head up to meet his gaze. “Will you listen to me for a minute?” They stare at each other until Sips knows he’s paying attention. “My point,” the mortal king mutters, moving his hand away from Smith’s chin, "is that our relationship is give and take. It’s never been about debt, and it never will be,” Sips emphasizes, “Do you understand that so far?”

Smith nods.

Sips continues, his voice loud in the stillness outside the apartment. “I know debts do exist between us. By paying off Angor, I took on the debt of saving you from punishment. But Smith...you’re forgetting something. You’re forgetting that I’m indebted to you.”

Smith frowns heavily. “What? How?” _The fuck was he forgetting-_

“Use the logical reasoning for your debt: should have been punished, but instead, is bailed out. Sound familiar?” Sips asks. Smith shakes his head, looking pained, so Sips clarifies, “Should have been killed, but instead was spared?” He tugs on his hat pointedly.

Smith’s eyes light up in understanding. “Oh.”

Sips smirks, but the small show of humor doesn’t reach his eyes. “Get it now? I mean, that’s the only reason I can think of, but...”

“Yeah.” Smith nods. “That- that would make sense. So...that’s why I can’t feel the magic of a debt. Neither of us...owe each other anything?”

“Yup. We’re debt free.” Sips smiles at the relief in Smith’s face. “In a roundabout way, I owed you my life for not killing me that night. Or killing me later on. That placed a debt, right? And after Angor, you in turn say you owed me your life for saving you. That would have placed a debt, too. But since I already owed you one, they cancelled each other out.”

Smith lets out a long breath. Some of the tension leeches from his frame. “That’s...smart of you, Sips.”

Sips shrugs. “Been known to happen. I wouldn’t hold a debt over your head like some kind of bargaining chip, anyway,” he adds kindly.

Smith looks away from him, at the apartment still waiting for their return. “I still don’t- I don’t know how to deal with that. All of this,” he admits.

“I know you don’t.”

He hears the mortal king take a deep breath and let it out.

“Smith.”

Sips tilts his chin up to meet his eyes again.

“It was the only thing I could have done,” Sips clarifies. His voice is calm but his gray eyes betray his worry. “None of us could have stopped Angor from taking you, otherwise. Not even if Trott was there. Not even if I had some sort of magic I could use- Angor’s just too powerful. Asking for a fight would be...”

“Reckless,” Smith whispers, “I know.”

“This is why I paid him off, Smith. Money and debt don’t fucking matter to me, _you_ do. None of you would stand by and let something happen to me if you could stop it. I’m not going to stand around and let anything happen to any of you. Not if I can help it.” Sips purses his lips together. “I’m the king of this court for a reason. Fuck knows what that reason is...I know I’m just a useless human, but give me some credit- I’m not going to give up that easily.”

Sips hand falls from Smith’s chin with a bitter sigh.

Smith looks up at him, apologies and thanks on the tip of his tongue. “Sips...”

“Promise me something, Smith.”

“Anything- just...anything.”

“Never leave behind evidence of you drowning or killing people that can be used against you. Your actions affect us all; you should know that by now.” Sips frowns.

Smith nods his head slowly. “I’m sorry, Sips. I know, and I’m sorry. But I can’t change the fact that I’ve-” He chokes on his words.

“I know.” Sips rests his hand atop Smith’s head, reassuring. He looks into Smith’s eyes with concern and brushes his fingers through his hair.

“Do you promise?” Sips asks, with a serious look on his face.

“I promise,” Smith whispers, lips trembling on the words. He ducks his head down again and stares at the ground. His hands tighten into fists at his sides- painfully, the burning ache so deep it makes his eyes water- and he focuses all his thoughts on taking deep breaths.

In, out. In, out.

“You don’t owe me anything, Smith,” Sips says intently, carding his fingers through Smith’s hair, “Not a single thing.”

He moves closer and Smith leans his face into Sips’ knee. The apartment waits in his field of vision like a fucking godsend. Home. Fuck, at last, he’s _home_.

Sips’ fingers still, and caress the side of Smith’s face before patting his shoulder again.

“Come on. Up now,” the mortal king says, “Your knees have got to be sore from staying in that position.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time, would it?” Smith quips, chuckling but with the smile on his face not quite reaching his eyes. He’s still trembling, the realization of freedom coming in quick and leaving him shell-shocked. The iron chains are gone. He’s safe.

Sips helps Smith to his feet and kisses him gently. Smith’s lips waver when he pulls away. He brushes a stray eyelash off Smith’s cheek, and sighs.

“Let’s get inside. We need to get you healed up.”

 

* * *

 

Ross is standing next to the door and Trott is pacing in front of it when Sips and Smith walk in. Trott stops mid-pace and takes in Smith's appearance. Fear, and then sorrowful relief rises like bile in his throat.

It’s obvious to Smith that Ross wants to hug him the minute he steps through the door, but Ross sees how hurt Smith is. He steps closer anyway, kissing Smith hard enough to hurt, and stroking down the nape of his neck as he pulls away.

Smith shudders under the touch. He feels physically and mentally exhausted, but he can finally catch his breath after all that terror he’s gone through. His eyes fall to Ross' t-shirt-covered chest. The damage Angor caused is hidden, and Smith doesn’t know the extent of it... "Ross...I-" _I’m so sorry. Fuck._ He glances leftwards, at the massive dent in the wall from earlier. “You-”

"Later." Ross strokes his cheek. "It's not your fault. I'll be alright, Smith. And you need healing more than me right now," he murmurs.

Smith gives him a small nod.

Ross reaches for Smith's hand, and then around to tuck his keys into his pocket.

The last bit of tension snaps as Smith comes in contact with them again. He sways on his feet, and briefly leans his forehead against Ross'. _Safe. I’m safe._ No wonder the sense of unease had continued to cling to him- being away from his bridle for so long was anxiety-inducing, and having it back was like a soothing balm. The metal feels warm, pressed against his thigh.

"Thank you," he says.

Ross nods and kisses Smith’s forehead as he pulls away.

Trott moves forward when Ross steps back. He comes closer, inspecting Smith’s injuries, and purses his lips into a frown. A flash of anger crosses his face at the sight of Smith’s wrists.

“Hey Trott,” Smith breathes hoarsely. He’s barely restraining himself from collapsing into Trott’s arms right now.

“Hey, sunshine...” Trott replies, cupping his cheek with a hand, “You're hurt.” The words are full of venom, and passion. Trott’s anger is rolling inside him, under the surface of his skin, but he holds Smith so carefully. He’s his anchor in this fucking hellstorm. _This_ Trott is the real one, not whatever hallucination Angor had produced.

Smith leans into the touch, and Trott moves closer until Smith can lean his head tiredly against his. _Fuck._ He’s home. _Home._ He’s shaking with relief.

He doesn’t realize he’s leaning until Trott’s arms come up to steady him.

"I thought I’d lost you..." Trott whispers, holding him gently but firmly, "I'm glad you're home."

Smith breathes in deep, smelling the ocean and salt and everything that’s Trott, and closes his eyes. “Yeah,” he croaks. He wants to say more, but he doesn’t have the words to describe what happened. Not right now. Maybe not ever. A weary, pained sound escapes from his lips before he can reel it in.

Trott shushes him quietly and guides him towards the hall. “Let's get you healed up, sunshine. Come on.”

Smith lifts his head and meets Sips’ eyes.

“Go ahead,” Sips encourages with a shooing motion, “Ross and I will be out here.” He and Ross watch as Trott leads Smith into his office.

Ross frowns, his tail lashing back and forth in unease. “What happened to him?” he asks, “How'd you get Smith home? What...”

Sips puts a comforting hand on Ross’ back as he stares down the quiet hallway. Trott’s voice trickles intermittently, too soft to understand. “I'll explain, Ross, I promise. How about we start dinner? I know we’re all gonna need to eat sometime tonight.”

“Okay, but...what about Smith?” Ross chews his lip and leans a little into Sips’ touch.

“Trott has him. I think that's what he needs right now, and his arms are in bad shape. Angor cuffed him in iron chains.”

Ross gasps. “ _For how long?_ ”

“As long as Angor had him.” Sips frowns heavily, wishing he had gotten to Smith sooner. But time worked in weird ways with fae- it was a good thing he had gotten to Smith at all.

Sips sighs and guides a shocked Ross into the kitchen. “Cmon, lets make dinner. Chili sound good? I’ll grab the beans.”

 

* * *

 

Sips slides a cup of tea onto Trott's desk, carefully away from any important paperwork, and on top of a coaster. His bowling jacket has been hung over the back of Trott's desk chair, but he leaves it there for the time being. He had changed out of his previous clothes and into some crappy but comfortable pajamas. He’s only in the office to bring Smith tea for his sore throat and his remaining aches. It’s one of Trott’s special magically-brewed tea blends, but it just smells like earl grey to him.

Sips shuffles backwards to the open doorway and leans on the molding, watching from afar for a few moments.

Smith and Trott are sitting on the floor together, and only have eyes for each other. Trott has his back pressed up against his wooden storage chest, catercorner to the desk, and Smith is leaning against him. His wrists are in Trott’s lap, in a bowl of murky green moss-water. He nuzzles his face into Trott’s neck, making pained winces and whimpers. There are what look like tear-stains dripping down the shoulder of Trott’s shirt.

“Shhh, I’ve got you, sunshine. I’ve got you,” Trott murmurs. His hands hover over Smith’s wrists in the bowl. The water glows teal and green, casting light upon their faces. Trott’s fingers move as if in slow motion, bending and curling in swimming motions.

Smith shudders. The moss-water crackles like melting ice.

Trott slowly stops and moves his hands away, one holding the bowl and one stroking Smith’s hair. “How is that, sunshine? Better?” he asks, “Little more?”

The water crackles louder, and Smith whimpers. Sips nearly misses the small nod of Smith’s head to signify a yes.

Trott inhales shakily. “Alright. I’ve got you. It’s alright.” He pets Smith’s hair and pecks a quick kiss to the top of his head. The green-blue glow of the light betrays how weary and tired Trott looks, highlighting the lines in his face and giving his brown hair a washed-out color tone. He sighs and lowers his hands again to continue healing.

Sips pulls away from the office door, and returns to Ross in the kitchen.

The gargoyle is standing in front of the stovetop, wearing his black apron and stirring a bubbling pot of tomato sauce, beef, beans, peppers, and spices. He offers Sips a spoonful to taste.

Sips’ teeth graze the sides of the wooden spoon as he pulls away, chewing slowly. The spicy tomato-beef flavor warms his palette.

“Needs more onion,” Sips comments, “but the flavor is good.”

Ross nods and sets the spoon down to reach for the spices on the counter. He throws another handful of onion powder into the pot. “It’ll be better tomorrow, but for now it’s good enough,” he replies. He picks up his spoon again and stirs through the chili in a figure-eight motion.

Sips glances at the fridge, wondering if there’s even any alcohol in it. When was the last time they went on a beer run? He hesitantly sits down at the table and stares at the wall clock, watching the hands move.

Ross finishes stirring the chili, banging the spoon on the rim of the pot to tap the excess off. He sets the spoon aside and puts the lid on.

“Are you not going to sit in Trott’s office?” he asks Sips over his shoulder.

Sips shakes his head. “No. I don't think being around me right now is going to help. I..." He sighs softly, and closes his eyes. “I did what I had to do, but. _God_ ,” he exclaims, “ _Why?_ ”

He opens his eyes again at the sound of stone thumping to the linoleum.

Ross kneels next to Sips, frowning. “Why, what?” he asks.

“Why did I have to,” Sips replies bitterly, “I know the answer- I get it, logically- but this _never should have happened to Smith_ , it never should have happened to _us_.”

Ross leans his head on Sips’ thigh, and Sips rests his shaking hand on the back of Ross' head. He breathes slowly, trying to piece himself into something stable.

“I- I don’t care what it cost. But it’s- it’s not fair. It’s _not_ , dammit. _I hate it._ ” It feels scalding to tell Ross this. Usually Sips is the one reassuring them all, and now- now he just- he’s just _tired of it_.

He’ll never stop caring, but all of this...all of this affects _him_ , too. He never likes to admit it.

Ross’ hand finds his, fingers interlocking. He rubs a pale thumb across Sips’ knuckles, and his blue glass tail wraps around Sips’ calf comfortingly. “You’re right. Nobody deserves to be...to go through so much pain and suffering,” Ross says slowly, “What happened hurts us all, in some way.”

“I don’t get it, sometimes,” Sips admits angrily, staring at the wall clock and blinking tears away, “How shit piles up only to trainwreck us. And I- they can’t- Ross, _tell me_ , tell me they’re not all like that...” he pleads.

“Who?”

“ _Fucking. Archangels_ ,” Sips spits. His confused, conflicted eyes look over at Ross again, and Ross lowers his gaze momentarily.

“Angor's fallen for a reason,” Ross mumbles, “but, because he’s fallen...no, I don’t think they’re all like that, Sips. I hope not.” He lifts Sips’ hand to his lips to kiss the back of it.

Sips looks into Ross’ blue eyes, and Ross smiles slightly.

“You still came back, Sips,” he says, “I was scared of the outcome of you going after Smith and Trott being somewhere else...but I knew you’d come back. I had hope, that things would be alright. And they really will be.” He squeezes Sips’ hand gently and smiles up at him. “I don’t know how, and- and I know it’s not always a sure thing. But...I have hope that it will be.”

Sips swallows thickly, tugging at Ross’ hand. until they both stand, so he can give Ross a hug. He buries his face in Ross’ shoulder and holds him tight. Ross’ strong, stone arms wrap around him securely.

Sips still doesn’t understand how Ross can be so hopeful despite uncertainty. “Promise me something, Ross?” he asks, voice shaky and muffled in Ross’ t-shirt. “Don’t ever give up. Please don’t ever lose hope in- whatever you believe. Don’t ever lose that. You’re the only one who has the most of it, out of all of us.”

Sips feels Ross smile and kiss his hair. “Never. I promise,” he says.

Ross rubs his back comfortingly. Sips squeezes his eyes shut. It’s selfish of him, to ask that of Ross. Ross, who out of all of them, couldn’t, wouldn’t ever give up hope. He’s not self-sacrificing to the point of having a death wish. He’s steadfast. Maybe that’s from being lonely always, in the beginning. Sips doesn’t know. He almost wishes he didn’t know what it looked like, to see his court broken, to see them crying, to see them hurt.

It’s a small price to pay, though, isn’t it...in the end. To keep them close. To hold them, like this.

Sips hopes so.

 

* * *

 

Smith never realized before how much time Trott spends in his home office. How cluttered, but organized, the desk is, laden with papers and thick document-stuffed files, with pens stored anywhere in reach. The closet is meticulously organized and color-coded, filled with old store merch, test products, paperwork, and miscellaneous fetish shit. His desk chair is worn-in, threads frayed, cushion flattened. There are even a couple of stale cups of tea lurking on the shelves- a sign that Trott had gotten so caught up in his work that he'd forgotten them.

And Trott himself...Trott is haggard. His hair is disheveled; his posture defeated. Smith watches from the floor as Trott dumps gunpowder into the remains of the moss water to thicken it, and scrapes the blackened sludge out of the bowel and into a trash-bag-lined bin to be burned later.

The inside of one of Trott’s palms is bruised a sickly blue-green, with yellow streaked up his forearm. Smith wonders when that happened. It had to be recent, but he couldn’t say for sure. When did he stop paying attention?

_You know when._

Smith pushes away the thought. He sips his tea carefully, ridding his mouth of the rusty, slick taste of blood. His tongue is sore from biting it earlier. The blood and dirt has been wiped off his face, but he still needs a shower, and to get out of his wrecked clothes. He reeks of sweat.

Trott’s healing magic has completely numbed the pain. Smith is sort of dizzy from it, and the absence of the constant hurt now makes him groggy. He’s too exhausted to do anything, but too keyed up to sleep.

The smell of chili permeates the apartment. It turns Smith’s stomach somewhat. He isn’t sure how much he'll be able to keep down; he’s not really hungry. The office door is open, but he can’t hear the tv in the living room. It’s weird for there to be silence during the evening hours. There's always some kind of noise, it seems like...

But, usually he's the one making it.

Trott sighs and finishes cleaning up. He sits back down on the floor next to Smith, caressing his upper arm comfortingly, and tracing over the healing runes he’d drawn with his finger.

“Alright, sunshine? Better?” he asks as he inspects the rounded, oblong imprints of chain-links burned into Smith's wrists. The burn marks have faded significantly from a vibrant red to a pink just darker than Smith’s skin.

Smith nods, turning the ceramic mug in his grip. There’s bound to be some soreness as the burns scar over, but for now, the pain is absent.

Trott’s eyes are hard and angry. Smith knows it’s not anger directed at him- there’d be more pain and disappointment in his gaze- but he doesn’t feel better about it.

“Fuck...” Smith sighs tiredly, “Trott...”

Trott shushes him. “Your voice is already hoarse; you don't want to lose it.”

"I always have a horse voice," he grumbles back.

Trott shoots him an unimpressed look, to which Smith replies with a tiny smile. Trott shakes his head. “You shouldn't be talking, sunshine, you're going to ruin your voice further. Is the tea helping any?”

“Yeah. It’s soothed the roughness a lot. And Trott, I-” He stares down at the half-empty cup and sets it out of their way behind the wooden chest they’re leaning up against. “There are things I need to say.”

“Okay? I'm listening.” Trott scoots closer, wrapping one arm around Smith’s waist.

Smith looks up from his burned wrists to meet Trott's gaze. “I know you might not believe it, but...” He closes his eyes momentarily, unable to speak for a long moment. “I’m sorry. For everything I've said, for everything I've done that's hurt you; that’s hurt all of us in the end. I regret it, and I’m sorry, Trott. _I’m sorry._ ” Smith doesn’t elaborate, unwilling to talk about it his mistakes again. He’s done enough confessing. _And the guilt lingers._

Trott sighs heavily, and his hand moves up to cup Smith’s cheek. “I know, sunshine,” he murmurs, “You don't need to apologize for that anymore. I've forgiven you for it.” _I just haven't quite forgiven myself yet,_ Trott thinks.

“You're the better man, to have kept me around for so long. I make _so many mistakes_.” Smith chuckles bitterly.

Trott tuts, sad but amused. “You're a mess of a man, sometimes, Smith,” he says with a small smile and a shake of his head, “But everyone screws things up. Everyone makes mistakes. It doesn't make you unloveable. You still deserve people who care about you.” Trott’s thumb brushes across his cheek.

Smith turns his head slightly to kiss the inside of Trott’s wrist. He doesn’t know how to thank him, or the rest of his court, for every bit of forgiveness they’ve given. It’s too kind, some days. Today, especially, when he’s been punished...tortured, for every wrong he’s made. It’s hard not to see his mistakes as something that will haunt him. But they’re not the only things that stick around in Smith’s life. His court has done him more good than bad, and Smith is more grateful than he lets on.

“I love you, you know,” Smith says after a pause, “I never say it, but I do.”

Trott doesn't know how to respond, stroking Smith’s cheek. He nods, overcome and unwilling to show it. “I know,” he whispers, “I know, Smith. I know you do.” He pulls Smith’s head down to rest on his shoulder, and holds him close.

“Do you believe me?” Smith asks, voice hushed.

“I always have, Smith. _Always_. I haven’t always believed I was worth it, but I believed in you,” Trott says, smoothing his hand between Smith’s shoulder blades, “I was lucky, to meet you when I did, Smith. I wouldn’t trade these years for anything, baggage included.”

Smith turns his head enough to kiss him.

“I was so scared for you earlier,” Trott mumbles, kissing Smith’s lips, cheek, and forehead. He strokes his fingers through Smith’s hair.

Smith sighs against his neck. “Sips...paid for the debt.”

“If I would have known, I would have gotten you out sooner. I'd gone out to the shops to make some business deals, and Ross had to track me down. My phone battery was completely drained. I'm so sorry I wasn't there, sunshine-” Trott stops himself, before his voice chokes up.

“It's not your fault, Trott. You’re not- you’re not responsible for my mistakes,” Smith says, as if reading Trott’s mind.

Trott is taken aback a little. _I never said I was, but I always think so, don't I?_ He pecks a kiss to Smith’s head. “I wish we knew ahead of time...”

Smith winces and clears his throat. “Well...I sort of did. Angor posted a summons on my car, earlier this week.”

Trott feels Smith’s muscles tense under his touch, and swallows thickly. _If he had fucking known-_ “...Why didn't you tell me?” he asks as calmly as possible.

“I didn't think anything could be done about it. And I couldn't just...walk straight into it.” Smith takes a deep breath and lets it out, slowly trying to relax again.

Trott holds him more securely, shifting his posture so his back isn’t pressing uncomfortably against the corner of the wooden chest. “I knew you weren’t okay today, Smith; I could feel it.”

Smith tilts his head to look him in the eye. “...You could?”

“I could feel you panicking all the way here.” Trott sighs, kissing Smith’s forehead. “The bond was rife with fear and pain. It didn’t help my own worries, that’s for sure.”

Smith frowns and looks away from Trott with a short cough. “It was...it was torture, Trott. It was like being trapped in a living nightmare. I don’t know how long it lasted, it just seemed like it went on forever- burning- beating- so much _pain_.” He shudders. “I don’t know how I’m going to fucking sleep again...”

Trott holds Smith, glaring into the mid-distance and trying not to clench his hands into fists. “I’ll kill him,” he says venomously, “I’ll slit the bastard’s holy throat, I don’t care.”

Smith hums. “I wish you could have. Would have been a nice interruption.”

Trott sighs heavily through his teeth. “I could have done something reckless, if Sips hadn’t gone to get you.”

“You? Reckless?” Smith snorts.

“Only for you, Smith.”

Smith smiles at that. His badass, beautiful selkie, enacting revenge with knives in hand. But he doesn’t want to think of what Angor would have done to Trott for getting in the way. Sips, as strange and mortal as he is, somehow worked out the payment in their favor.

Trott pulls away from Smith for a moment, thinking. He stands up and crosses the room to his desk, pushing some papers around to unearth a pile of gemstone necklaces. He snags one and turns back around.

“What are you doing?” Smith asks, leaning against the chest on the floor.

“Something I should have done a long time ago.” Trott frowns as he kneels down beside Smith and closes his eyes. He folds his hand around the gem and concentrates. The leather band dangles between his fingers.

Trott’s palms glow an iridescent blue, and Smith gently touches his shoulder.

“Trott, whatever you’re trying to do...” he trails off. Magic gets hard on the body, the more you use. Trott’s straining.

But after a minute or so, he stops, and the blue glow fades. “There.” Trott breathes heavily, opening his eyes. He slides the necklace over Smith’s head, adjusting the gemstone pendant to lie flat over Smith’s breastbone. “This is agate stone. It’ll only hold my magic for so long, but this might help with things. I didn’t do it before, because to make it so powerful without added charms...”

“It takes a lot,” Smith finishes. He steadies Trott as the selkie blinks, looking dazed. Trott leans his head onto Smith’s shoulder this time. Smith pecks a kiss to Trott’s temple and adjusts the orange-brown layered crystal around his neck. It reminds him of his bridle, for some reason. He places one hand over his keys in his pocket and wraps his other arm around Trott to hold him close.

“I’m glad you’re home, Smith,” Trott mutters wearily.

Smith closes his eyes and sighs. “Yeah. Yeah, me too.”

 

* * *

 

Trott stands alone in his office, the sound of Smith in the shower a distant echo. He works his cell phone case off and the pops the back of it open, grimacing at the fried interior. No wonder it wouldn’t keep a charge- the motherboard and sim card were corroded with battery acid. It meant all his contacts were gone, too. Dammit.

He tries to pry to ruined battery out but drops the phone to the floor as a bit of static sparks against his fingertips.

Static...an electricity magic byproduct. Trott waves his hand over the phone to check, carefully picking it up. It _had_ been magically tampered with. But how? He had decent battery power before he left Dirty Deeds, and he never set his phone down where someone could mess with it. How had it gotten drained that fast?

Trott frowns to himself, trying to remember the last time he checked his phone today- after he left the bank, and before he entered the Apple store...

Before he ran into Will Strife.

Trott focuses harder, feeling out for magical signatures with a whispered word, and curses furiously at the outcome.

He yanks open a drawer in his desk to take out the glass shards from their electric box and Sips’ car, comparing their magical signature to the phone.

_Fucking piece of shit._

He hadn’t seen the evidence in the Apple store while he was there, but he realizes it now, remembering the restarting electronics. The static byproduct from electricity magic when he touched Will’s shoulder hadn't been a latent protection glamour at all- it had been the tech bastard sapping his battery life. That’s why Will was so nervous and continued a conversation with him- to distract him from what he was doing.

Trott’s hands are shaking. He crushes his fingers around his cell phone and the small container of glass shards. _How could he have been so stupid as to trust a tech mage in an electronics store._

The magic in the tempered glass explosives was a partial match to Will's magical signature on the cell phone. He didn't activate the explosives, but he most certainly primed them.

Fucking technomancer magic. This meant Will had more power and control than Trott thought. And if he’s on the horned bastard’s side...he’s an enemy.

“ _Fuck_ -” Trott vehemently chucks his phone at the wall, watching the screen shatter. He needs a new phone anyway.

Trott shoves the glass shards back into his desk. He curses in water fae under his breath, and rubs at the dull headache trapped behind his forehead. His stress levels, lack of food, and physical and magical exhaustion made his entire body sore, but his head especially.

Fuck.

Another thing he hadn’t seen coming.

Trott slowly paces his office, wringing his hands through his hair. He tries not to blame himself for today, trying to feel numb and detached, because if he didn't care, it wouldn't hurt so much. And if he cared more, he could have done something.

He’s useless. Just like they had always said.

Say his battery hadn’t gone down- he couldn't have paid for Smith's freedom, anyway. He would have had to pay Angor off with magic, and he didn't have enough because of their fucking battered threshold, and too many of his own screwups. If he could have prevented this...

Trott groans, rubbing his hands over his face,

He swore to himself that he would do whatever it takes to keep his court safe. If safety isn’t even an option, fine. He’s never been able to stop Smith from making dangerous choices, anyway. He didn’t see the hits on Sips coming. Ross, in some sense, had already suffered alone for centuries before joining their court. It’s not like he can change any of that. He can’t change the past.

If their current safety is fucked, fine. But their _life_...their future...

There are no other options, in Trott’s mind. Either they all live, in the end, or-

Or, Trott will take that fall for them.

Trott squeezes his eyes shut tight, his chest constricting with fear and anger.

There are no other options than that. He can’t lose them. So if it’s him- if the outcome is inevitable, then he’ll take the necessary precautions he needs to keep his court alive. If safety wasn’t surety, than the least they need is to stay alive.

If Trott thinks about it hard enough, he’s failed them a lot already. He owes them that much, to give them everything. And if that means his life for theirs, then so be it.

All these are dangerous thoughts to have. Thoughts he didn’t voice, because his court didn’t need that burden of his own self-sacrificing bullshit, of his fear of their mortality and a world that didn’t have them in it.

Damn everyone against them. Damn them all. Damn the blasted Sidhe Lord, his technomancer pet, and anyone else in their fold. Trott would see to it that whoever wanted his court dead, whoever wanted to see them fall, would be ruined. Or he’d die trying.

He had sworn to protect them, so if he can't do that-

Trott stops pacing, pinching the bridge of his nose between his forefinger and thumb. His breath is shaky. His head pounds loudly.

He _hadn’t_ done that, today. He didn’t protect them; he’d been cut off from communication and paralyzed in place from pain while Smith had been fucking tortured.

Trott had known he couldn't do anything to _stop_ Angor, but he had thought- he thought he could get Smith out of it. He had thought that maybe he could have stopped Smith from being hurt.

He couldn’t do any of that today. He hadn’t been there until the aftermath.

But...

Sips had. Sips had gone after Smith, paid his debt, and brought him home.

 _“You’re not alone in this, you know,”_ Sips had said once, months ago.

 _Maybe he was right...and maybe I was wrong,_ Trott thinks morosely, _but next time, we might not be so lucky. Nobody’s that lucky. And luck always runs out._

Trott sighs, trying to calm his panic and his anguish. He takes the time to breathe and center himself again. Today wasn’t over with just yet. The sun was setting, and after dinner they’d rest...but he can’t shake the hopelessness inside him.

Smith wasn’t the only one who made mistakes. Trott knew that too well, himself.

 

Trott meets Ross at the end of where the hallway meets the living room, carrying a box of larger glass pieces they use to heal Ross' wounds. Ross recognizes the box immediately, but declines before Trott can open his mouth.

“No, Trott. Not now,” he protests, “I can see how strained you are. No.” Ross shakes his head, his tail flicking back and forth behind him nervously.

“Ross-”

“ _No_.” His voice is tender but firm.

“What? Ross-” Trott tries again.

“Don’t, please,” Ross sighs and gingerly takes the box from Trott’s hand. “Don’t get angry, okay? Just...it can wait. Don’t exhaust yourself further. I’ll be fine, and we’ll fix it later. So just go sit the fuck down and eat, okay?” His blue eyes are obviously worried about how tired Trott looks.

Trott purses his lips.

Ross tucks the box under his arm and nods towards the kitchen. “There’s a bowl of chili for you on the table. I’m going to fetch Smith out of the shower.”

“He's been in there for a long time...” Trott frowns towards the sound of running water.

“I think he just...needed some space, maybe.” Ross chews on his lip. “The burns from the iron...will they scar?”

Trott nods. “Yes. If he's lucky it’ll fade some. Though sometimes I think all our luck's running out...”

“Not yet. We're not done yet, Trott.”

Trott hums. He doesn’t sound convinced

Ross shifts the box of glass in his grip. “When Angor...arrived, he mentioned that his divine power is similar to what makes me... _me_. Do you think he could undo that?” he asks, “Does he know more about...about why I exist?”

Trott shakes his head. “You’re both beings that were intended to protect those God deems worthy. That’s all. I wouldn’t trust anything he taunted you with, sunshine.” None of them were sure about the specifics of why Ross was created. It didn’t comfort Trott to know that Angor may know more...but few knew anything about divine magic, so the less anyone _else_ knew, the better. It wasn’t wise to go around asking about divine powers.

Ross hesitates a moment before speaking again. “I don’t like to think that there are similarities between him and me,” he says.

Trott moves forward and hugs him, unsure what to say. “Trust me, Ross, there’s nothing. You’re not fallen, like he is.”

Ross hugs Trott back with one arm and kisses the top of his head. “He hurt Smith a lot. I can’t imagine what Smith went through when he was there, chained up, without his bridle. I don’t understand how someone who was holy could do that to him. I don’t know if I could forgive myself if I did that to someone I cared about...”

Trott swallows thickly, holding Ross tighter and trying not to think of how he’s hurt Smith in the past. He’s not Angor. He’s nothing like him. “I dumped a lot of healing into Smith,” he says, “But all of that was for physical damage. I don’t know what else to do to help...”

“He’ll be alright, Trott. We all will,” Ross reassures him, “We’ve been here before. We’ve been through worse.”

“We’ll be through it again, if fate takes the chances.” Trott sighs

“Then we’ll do it together. You know that, right? Don’t you?” Ross frowns as Trott pulls away.

Trott gives him a small smile, nods, and kisses his forehead. “It’s just...hard, sometimes.” He heaves a heavy sigh, and scoots past Ross to walk into the kitchen.

Ross watches him go, and heads to the bathroom to beckon Smith out of the shower.

 

* * *

 

“Smith,” Ross calls loud enough to be heard over the shower spray. He closes the door behind him. Smith has his back turned, facing the wall with one arm up on the tile. His head is bent down enough that Ross knows he has his face in the crook of his arm.

Ross moves closer, stepping over Smith’s clothes on the floor. The dirty fabric is soot-blackened. His socks look like he’d been walking through fields of ashes. He doesn’t envy the shopping trip Trott’s probably going to drag Smith on for new clothes.

“Smith?” Ross calls again, “Do you mind if I get in?”

Smith shakes his head no, and keeps his face hidden in his arm.

Once Ross’ clothes are off, he steps inside the shower. Smith is mostly out of the spray, standing at the far end of the tub, so Ross stands under the shower head for a few moments and lets the water warm him. In the light of the bathroom, his own injuries look darker- his breastbone is black-charred and cracked, and there’s a scratch on his chest, from the sword Angor created out of thin air. It doesn’t hurt per-say, it just feels off. It was hard to turn Trott away from helping, but knowing how weary he is, it can wait. Ross will be fine. A day or two, and he’ll heal himself up. He left the box on the bedside table in the bedroom for later.

When Ross’ hair is thoroughly wet, he moves away from the water and closer to Smith. He caresses Smith’s back and shoulders gently, careful of the bruises littering his body. Some are unidentifiable smears and mottled shapes from multiple impacts, and some are footprints from boots. Ross makes note of the scar on Smith’s lower back, where the knife had gone in from the Norn. Sometimes, Smith flinched if it was touched. He avoids that, too.

“Smith? Do you want me to wash your hair?” he asks. The water streams down over them both, running rivulets from head to toe.

“I already did,” Smith answers quietly.

“Okay...are you alright?”

“I’m fine.”

Ross sighs. “You’re not fine, Smith.”

“I should be,” he mumbles.

“After the shit Angor put you through? No, you shouldn’t,” Ross says snappishly, “It’s okay to admit you’re hurting.”

Smith sighs, and his breath hitches. “I know. You’re right. It’s...not easy, to think it.”

“To think I’m right?” Ross smirks, but frowns when Smith doesn’t chuckle back.

“To think I’m not okay,” Smith replies, his voice muffled against his arm and from being turned away from Ross, “I’m not, and...sometimes, it doesn’t get easier. That’s okay to- to deal with the back and forth of it, the struggle. But that’s not easy to think all of the time. I want things to be okay, Ross. I want them to be, so badly...and they’re...well, they’re not. They’re really fucking not, sometimes.” Smith’s shoulders heave as he gulps in air, shaking. “I mean- this fucking court summons- it just brings up all the shit I’ve been trying to deal with. And my head starts running in circles again. Am I really just- is that all I am, _the fucking monster?_ ”

He muffles a whimper, and Ross turns Smith towards him to envelop him in a hug. Water drips off of Smith’s hair, and clings to the orange-brown crystal hanging from his neck.

Ross kisses him over and over again. “No. No, you’re not, Smith. You are so much more than that. So much more.”

“Fuck, Ross...” Smith gasps, holding him tight. _I wish I believed you right now._

Ross shushes him, humming something. It’s not a song Smith recognizes, so it must be a church thing. Smith knows Sips has been letting Ross listen to the classical music and prayer radio station in his borrowed oldspersonmobile.

Smith cries silently into Ross’ neck for a little while, until the water is nearly cold. When he raises his head and steps back, Ross cradles Smith’s face in his hands.

“I think maybe I needed that,” Smith says morosely, “This...stupid fucking torture.”

Ross frowns heavily. “Smith...no...”

Smith’s voice is hushed; his syllables slow when he speaks. “Ross- listen...maybe I needed that. Maybe- maybe I wasn’t going to get any further if something worse didn’t happen first. I don’t know.” He blinks heavily.

“Nobody deserves what he did to you, Smith. _Nobody._ ” He stares into Smith’s green eyes, stroking his cheek.

Smith shrugs. “At least...I don’t know, Ross. But it's the end. All that suffering is over with. What I've done...I can leave it behind. I've paid for it. Regardless of whether I deserved it or not, I've paid for it.” He sighs heavily. “I mean, I don’t think all of this is going to leave me so easily. I don’t think it being ‘over with’ means it’ll stop bothering me. But at least it’s _done_. At least I won’t have to be- to be fucking _tortured_ like that, for the things I can’t change...and if I needed that for all this to move on, then...”

“You didn’t deserve what he did. You may have made mistakes, but you didn’t deserve to be hurt for it. He’s a damn fucking bastard for what he’s done. And he's _never_ going to hurt you again, Smith,” Ross whispers, “We won't let him. _You didn’t deserve any of this..._ ”

Smith is motionless as Ross kisses his neck and his shoulders, and cards his fingers through Smith’s hair.

“I don’t want to be alone anymore, Ross.” Smith says morosely, “Not like that. Not like I was, in that cell. Never again.” He shudders from the chill of the water. “I felt so trapped...”

All Ross wants to do is cradle Smith in his arms. It's a powerless, helpless feeling, to be unable to help someone you care about. He hates it, even more than he hates waiting.

Ross kisses Smith gently. He cups Smith’s cheek in one hand and take his bond-marked hand in the other, kissing Smith’s fingertips and the crook of each knuckle. Smith leans his face into Ross’ neck. The gargoyle folds Smith into his embrace again and kisses his temple. “You have me, always, Smith. You promised me, and I’m not going anywhere. I don’t ever want to be alone, either, so you always have me,” he promises.

“Well...” Smith drawls, “At least that’s something.”

“You can always count on a gargoyle to stay, Smith.” Ross smirks. “Only place I’ll go is wherever you are.”

“Can we at least get out of the shower?” Smith says after a pause. “It’s fucking freezing now.”

Ross snorts and leans back to meet Smith’s eyes. “Yeah, we can. I made chili. That should warm you up.”

“‘m not hungry,” Smith grumbles.

“Do I have to spoon feed you?”

“No...”

Ross smiles. “Come on. Lets get you dried off. Get some food. Do you want to sit at the table, or go to bed? Or should we curl up on the couch?”

“Either way, I don't think it'll be easy to relax tonight,” Smith sighs.

Ross wipes Smith’s wet hair out of his eyes. “You really do need a haircut, you know.”

Smith sticks his tongue out at him.

Ross pecks a kiss to Smith's cheek and reaches to shut the water off.

 

* * *

 

The legs of the kitchen chair scrape loudly across the floor as Trott scoots in it towards the table.

Sips raises his eyebrows, but says nothing, wedging a spoonful of chili into his mouth.

There’s a bowl of shredded cheddar cheese and a bag of oyster crackers spilling onto the table between them.

Trott takes some cheddar cheese and drops it into the bowl of chili that Ross has left for him. He stirs it in, watching the cheese melt and wind around the spoon.

“This...debt thing,” he begins, hesitant, “Smith said very little of what happened considering you and Angor. But he said you paid for the debt.”

Sips pulls the soup spoon out of his mouth with a wet pop. “What do you want to know?”

“What happened when you arrived? What did he do-” Trott starts.

“I showed up, paid him off, and bid him fuck-night,” Sips answers, interrupting, “He didn’t do anything to me.” He takes another bite of his chili.

Trott stares down at his own bowl, and forces himself to eat. He tells himself he’ll feel better. Physically, at least.

“I don't know if you and Smith's debts cancelled each other out...” he says slowly, in between bites, “My guess is that you paid with magic just by being king, but I can't say for sure.”

Sips shrugs. His spoon clinks against the side of the bowl. “What matters is that you’re safe. _All_ of you.”

Trott hums, not commenting on the emphasis of Sips' words.

“That shithead fucker deserved a fist to the face and more, but I didn't really want to get sacrificed and deal with Peter at the gates today,” Sips adds casually. There’s an anger in his words that Trott’s only heard a few times before. “Any law problems you three get into in the future, get lawyer, eh? Because the outcome- none of that torture was just or righteous. All that punishment, for what?”

“For the three dozen lives Smith killed, Sips,” Trott says sadly, “You can’t kill someone more than once, for retribution. The punishment for our kind is often brutal acts like these because of that.”

“Well. It’s still horrifically shitty,” Sips grumbles, crushing some crackers into his chili and grumpily eating.

Trott picks at his food, but keeps eating in silence. This was the first time he and Sips had really talked after their fight earlier this week. A lot hung in the air between them, and Trott knew he had to be the one to break down that barrier.

"I'm not...good at this," Trott admits. “I’m sorry. I want to be better.”

Sips chews his chili slowly and nods.

“Though Smith’s debt to Angor is paid, and his drownings are no longer an issue,” Trott continues with a sigh, “I think…I think the horned bastard may have a bigger hand than I expected in our recent court magic deficits.”

“What do you mean?” Sips reaches for another handful of oyster crackers.

Trott shakes his head and smushes a kidney bean with the back of his spoon. “It’s a complicated thing.”

“So...explain it to me?” Sips’ question is careful, and curious. His eyes are filled with care, and Trott looks away. As hard as it is to keep talking, he has to.

Trott nods, and begins his long-winded explanation, “For starters, the Sidhe Court is ancient- more ancient than _any of us_. There has always been chaos in the cities, because most fae thrive on debts, power imbalances, that sort of thing. And big cities are where humans flock to.

“The horned bastard has been the king of the Sidhe court, and de-facto ruler of the city and conductor of fae magics, for millennia. The more debts someone has, the greater the amount of power, and the more influence and sway you have over others.”

“Power of what, voodoo?” Sips asks, “What does he use all that for?”

“Electricity and terraforming. The power of storms. You ever wonder how things get built so fast around here? How one day there's a strip mall and the next, an industrial park?” Trott asks, “ _That's why_. The person with the most power can twist and warp the city to how they see fit. The location of territory determines where that development occurs.”

Sips absorbs the information slowly, scraping the sides of his chili bowl clean. Trott lets it sink in while he eats, and then speaks up again.

“What the horned bastard does...it _looks_ like a good thing, from the outside. But you look under the surface, and he's dug his roots in until he has _absolute_ control. Sometimes that benefits the city. He's built parks and entertainment venues, refurbished old buildings into modern upscale shops and apartments...but it may not be what the city _needs_.”

“Gentrification.”

Trott nods. “Exactly. The money and magic _we_ use always goes into what the neighborhoods need to survive- _not_ things that draw more population, increase spending habits, or hike up the cost of living. There are so many people in this city he'll cast aside and ignore...” He scowls. “He chooses people for his court based on how he thinks they'll benefit _his_ power and _his_ plans. Not what's best for those he takes in. People don't see that when he seems so kind and shit.”

“You three always talk ill of him. I can understand why, if that’s what he does.”

“Smith and I distrusted what he wanted out of us, when he invited us to join the Sidhe. When Ross joined us and we made a court of our own, he tried again- asking Ross to leave us and join him instead.”

“Ross didn't buy it.”

“No.” Trott smirks. “He told the horned bastard to fuck off.”

Sips smiles back, finishing the last of his chili and dropping the spoon in the bowl with a clatter.

“And then after you were crowned...” Trott sighs. “The fight over territories really began. The places we took over were ones he had left in ruin, but the minute we started contesting his power, the more the shitlord pushed back. He sent in people to foreclose areas, raided places based on fake charges, offered people in the area things they didn't want to refuse. It was blackmail, and we were getting overrun as his shit leached into ours.”

“How have we grown, since, if he's been fighting along the way?” Sips asks.

Trott resignedly pushes his half-eaten bowl of chili away from him, his stomach protesting despite the fact that he should be hungry. “With you. With your help, actually. Because you're the king, the growth of your business has added to our money pool. You've helped here and there with some of my projects...”

“Though you disagreed at first.”

“I did,” Trott admits, “Every business paying garbage court dues acts like a lighthouse, or watchtower. Your influence allowed us access into the business district, places we were more or less locked out of because of the horned bastard's sway. Next to the Sidhe, we're the court that controls the largest amount of the city. I showed you the debts- the lines between us. If one of those snaps or changes...”

“The balance breaks?”

Trott nods. “When abrupt shifts happen...the magic unleashed can make a hell of a mess, so to speak.” He clears his throat and leans back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest. “So. That’s the whole of it.” he says, “Any questions?”

“Well. Fuck...I dunno. Nothing I can think of off the top of my head.” Sips sighs and adjusts the baseball hat on his head. “Who the fuck decided a pyramid scheme court was a good idea?”

Trott shakes his head. “You're tellin’ me...The horned bastard is a power hungry machiavellian sonofabitch. He wants _everything_ his way, and people who undermine that generally get shafted.”

“Why haven't we...” Sips starts.

“Because, usually we shafted him first.”

Sips frowns, thinking of the guy with a gun, the golems, the electrified car... “We've gotten fucked a few times though, Trott.”

“Yeah,” Trott replies dryly, “I know.” He glares down at the reflection of the overhead lights in his bowl of chili. A few kidney beans stick out atop the sauce.

“So...how are we gonna fuck him back?” Sips asks.

A dark wry smirk and a thoughtful look crosses Trott’s features. He raises head to meet Sips’ eyes again, his gaze bitter but vengeful. “Good question.”

 

Sips rinses the bowls out in the sink, watching out of the corner of his eye as Trott sticks his half-eaten chili back in the fridge. Sips guesses he couldn’t stomach it, even though there was plenty of time for him to eat. Ross and Smith had eaten in the living room after Smith had gotten out of the shower. Sips is honestly surprised that Smith ate more than Trott, considering.

He sets the bowls up against the counter backsplash to air dry, and dries off his hands with the dishtowel hanging over the edge of the sink.

“Trott...” Sips starts, wanting to say something but not sure how to say it.

Trott shuts the fridge door and closes the distance between them to embrace Sips in a hug.

“Sips. I should have said earlier, but. Thank you,” Trott murmurs into his shoulder.

Sips wraps his arms around Trott. His voice gets caught in his throat momentarily. Because what do you say to that? Sips knows what Trott is thanking him for- for saving Smith earlier today- and Sips doesn’t know what to say in response.

Fuck.

“You're not the only one who hates tyrants like that,” he says.

“I guess not. It was- Terrifying. Not. Being there.” His words come out chopped, quiet.

Sips knows how hard this is for Trott to say. He rubs his shoulders comfortingly. “I always have your back, Trott. I'm not a useless piece to this court.”

Trott's eyes water. He rubs his face against Sips' shirt. “You never are.” He gently pulls himself away. Sips takes his hands.

“Trott. Promise me something. Please?” Sips’ grey eyes are sad, and determined.

Trott waits, silently compelling him to continue.

“No more secrets. No more, going forward. We do things together, as a court, from here on out. _Because_ , Trott-” Sips says, squeezing his unbruised hand- “We're not alone in this. _You're_ not alone in this. That's what this means, to have a court, to call this home. And I'm never giving up on that unless I have to. Not now. _Not yet_ , if I can help it.”

Trott heaves a deep breath and nods slowly. “Okay. No more secrets. No new secrets, Sips. I promise,” he says.

Sips lifts Trott’s bruised hand to his mouth and gently kisses the back of it, smiling. “Thank you.”

 

* * *

 

No one really watches the tv, even though Golden Girls is on. Smith is laying across the couch with his head in Sips' lap; Ross' tail carefully wrapped around his upper arm. He’s wearing Sips' bowling jacket and fish-patterned boxers that say "kiss my bass."

Smith pulls his legs back for Trott to take his place on the other end of the couch. He rests them in the selkie’s lap when Trott sits down. Trott gives him a small warning glance not to spill the tea he’s holding. His selkie skin is draped over the back of the couch.

Ross fidgets with the hem of his t-shirt, tugging at a loose thread as he watches the soundless tv. Sips, too, is not exactly settled. He seems to be staring at the cracks in the wall past the tv, and his hand intermittently plays with the loose button on the couch that’s dangling from its string.

Smith is barely awake. He feels too keyed up to sleep but too exhausted to do anything but lay there. He can strongly smell Sips’ aftershave from where he sits, and both that and Sips’ free hand in his hair brings him comfort. He’s just glad to be _home_. The relief makes him blink back tears again. Fuck, he’s done too much crying today. Ugh.

“So...what now?” Ross asks quietly. After dinner, they’d all acknowledged that there was a lot of unfinished business they needed to talk about...and then sort of avoided the subject in lieu of watching silent television.

“Well, I have to-” Trott stops and corrects himself, catching Sips' easy eyebrow raise from the other end of the couch. “ _We_...need to fix the threshold.”

“Which means...?”

“Which means we need more magic,” Trott sighs.

Smith lets out a low groan of realization.

“How're we going to do that?” Sips asks. He strokes his fingers through Smith’s hair and shushes him.

“Same way we’ve usually done it,” Trott replies, surly as he reaches for the remote on the coffee table, “By throwing one of our infamous garbage court raves.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smith’s boxers  
> https://i.ebayimg.com/00/s/MTAyNFgxMDI0/z/sSEAAOSwP~tW3Caa/$_58.JPG
> 
> Thank you for your support, comments, kudos, everything. It means more than I can say.


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